


Magpie: Three for a Girl

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Magpies [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Mary, Caught between a rock and a hard place, Gen, Mary as a nurse, Trekking in the Caucasus mountains, What happened in Tbilisi stays in Tbilisi, agra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: The mystery that is Mary—who she is, where she came from and what debts she accrued along that journey. How did she come to fall in love with a man she was supposed to be protecting and why it leads her to put a bullet in Sherlock's chest. A five plus one.
Series: Magpies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/878400
Comments: 50
Kudos: 60





	1. "We die"

**_—SIX YEARS AGO IN TBILISI, GEORGIA—_ **

"What now? What do we do?"

Ajay's question is aimed at her, but there isn't enough time to say anything more than the obvious.

She pulls up her balaclava and pronounces the truth, "We die."

She pulls the pin on her stun grenade and throws it to the floor, white light and an ear-deafening sound exploding in front of the gunmen facing them. All hell breaks loose as the team scatters, the hostages start screaming and gunfire rips down the corridor.

**_—Four days later—_ **

As soon as she feels a pair of eyes lingering too long on her, Rosemary pulls back into the shadows. The ragged, dusty burqa she's liberated from a rubbish bin covers her from head to toe, but she still feels exposed. Her disguise is as just another refugee beggar, complete with wooden crutch. It means that most people in the marketplace ignore her, but something tells her that someone is paying just a little too much attention. She hopes it isn't an Islamophobe; yesterday she was spat at. As if the racists weren't bad enough, she has to avoid the authorities who take a dim view towards beggars. Georgia has no love of Afghan refugees, having more than enough of their own internally displaced peoples from Abkhazia and South Ossetia with which to deal. Having turned to a stall of oranges, she picks one up, hoping that those eyes will pass on. She gets a glare of outrage from the stall-keeper instead, so she outs it back and turns away.

She desperately needs an exit strategy, and soon.

She can't go to the British; they betrayed her team. Not for the first time since that debacle, she rues the fact that she had let her intuition be overruled when the order came through to launch the operation prematurely. Thanks to the ambush someone had organised, she's currently nursing a variety of injuries. First, there is the bullet wound—a graze that opened her left wrist and left her fumble-fingered and helpless. When she'd crawled out of the smoke-filled corridor back into the room where the hostages had been held, the rope to the roof gave her an exit from the shooting, but when her damaged wrist gave way over the wall of the compound, she'd fallen badly and has the black and blue bruises to show for it. The team always had a contingency plan, and she'd made her way to the agreed rendezvous site for it—this market—and waited in vain for their ride or any of the others to arrive. The missing driver is yet another piece of evidence; the operation had been compromised from the start. Without transport, she is left to fend for herself, and the means for making her own way out of the country are limited. The Americans have a tiny presence here in Tbilisi, and she has personal reasons to avoid them just as she does the British, given how their last mission for the CIA failed to deliver. For all she knows, the betrayal might have originally come from them in retaliation.

The more she considers the reality of her situation, the more she becomes convinced that the only way she's going to get out of Tbilisi is by finding someone in the trade from a non-Western country. A fellow spy might well be interested in exchanging information for passage away from this disaster. Georgia is swarming with Russian ones; they are keeping an eye out for developments that will further their interests in Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Making contact with one of them and getting to Moscow shall be her Plan A.

She's returned to the market as the most likely place to spot someone but worries that she is equally vulnerable to prying eyes. Her bruises and likely cracked rib add an air of authenticity as she shifts into the bent-over shape of an ancient crone and shuffles further away from the stream of shoppers in the street market. Her limp is real, too: soft tissue damage from the fall makes walking on her ankle hurt like hell since she's not had the time or place to heal. As her vision starts to tunnel from the pain and the ensuing nausea, Rosemary reaches out to grab a tent pole holding up the awning over a dried fruit stall. Her hand is shaking with a frailty that is in keeping with the disguise. If she is not careful, she is going to pass out.

Eyes closed and head bowed down to try to catch her breath and ride the nausea out, she is totally unprepared for the strong pair of hands that suddenly appear from nowhere, grabbing her shoulders roughly from behind, shoving her further into the shadows. Before she can react, one of those hands is repositioned against her neck and she feels the unmistakable shape of a gun muzzle pressed into her throat.

"Don't move. Don't speak, don't even think of resisting."

She sifts through the words, only realising after a moment that they have been spoken in heavily accented English rather than Georgian, or Pashto.

"What do you want?" She breathes softly, unconsciously mimicking his accent.

"It's more about what _you_ want." The other hand shifts away from her arm, up to the side of her neck and she feels the prick of a needle.

This time, she loses the struggle to stay conscious.

oOoOoOoOo

As she starts to surface from the drugs, Rosemary's experienced enough to hide the fact from whoever might be watching her. Even so, it doesn't take much to realise that she's no longer wearing a burka; she's naked, with her forearms and legs from the knees down to her ankles bound tight to what feels to be a chair. Her ears tell her that there is another person in the room; she can hear his breathing and fidgeting as he waits for her to shrug off whatever he'd given her. She hears the sound of a lighter and then smells a thick tobacco aroma. Hoping that his nicotine habit will distract him, she runs a quick diagnostic check around her various injuries, which suggests that nothing has been aggravated. There is no tell-tale vaginal pain she can detect, which suggests that despite her nudity, there has been no sexual abuse. If anything, being forced into non-movement for several hours might have helped with the healing. Tightening her muscles slowly to avoid being seen, she surreptitiously tests the bonds which feel like duct tape.

"Don't bother."

The deep, gravelly voice is the same that had spoken to her in the marketplace. This time it is coming from behind her and she is able to realise that, while he may be speaking in English, the accent is not that of an American or a Brit. This _is_ a native Georgian speaker.

Not for the first time, she wishes she spoke the language; it had been the one real weak spot in their plans that none of the four of them did. Ajay's Arabic was useless, and Rosemary's Russian would have marked her out as the enemy more surely than engaging people in English.

There simply had been no time to acquire local support. Ammo had been specific: "In and out; no more than 48 hours in the country. We've set it up so that all you have to do is get the Ambassador and her husband out of the consulate and into the car that we will have waiting to drive you to Rastavi. A light aircraft there will get you across the border to safety in Azerbaijan." Then, the phone call had come through from Ammo's PA to accelerate the plan, bumping it earlier another seven hours. That gave them very little time to prepare.

Rosemary opens her eyes to get a better sense of where she is, and is relieved to find that the premises are not what she would have expected if her captor had been one of the Georgian security services people. She's in what looks to be a storage room, dim twilight coming from a broken dirty pane of a tiny window. If her lack of hunger is anything to go by, this is the same day as she was captured, approximately six hours later.

Training kicks in and tells her that the entrance must be behind her, from where the voice also came.

The man who spoke moves around her chair, carrying a laptop which he opens and positions on a dusty crate in front of her. It comes to life showing an image of Big Ben. The man, who is nearly two meters in height, dark-haired and bushy eye-browed, commands: "Listen."

" _Welcome to Tbilisi, Rosemary._ " The voice is synthesised, presumably to protect the owner's anonymity. That is noticed in a moment, but less important than its use of her name.

" _If you are wondering how I know your name, it was the most likely. Alex could be a shortened version of Alexandra, but no male is going to be called Rosemary._ "

This time she lets the sigh be audible. Knowledge of her name and that of at least one of her team conflicts with the whole set-up of the room. Is the CIA behind all of this, just as she had suspected?

Unconsciously, she stiffens on the hard metal chair.

" _No, this is not our American friends._ "

Rosemary mutters a curse under her breath. How is it possible that whoever is on the other end of the webcam is able to deduce her thinking so well?

She decides to engage with this unknown, see if conversation might yield some clues. She modulates her accent into something vaguely mid-Atlantic. "What do you want?"

There is a pause that lengthens, but then: " _It's more about what you want, which I presume is a way out of this hell-hole._ "

"What about the others?" She has to try to find out what her captor knows.

Again, a delay. Is it because there is some distance between this room and the interrogator? Could it be someone in a different country? Or just a crap wi-fi signal?

The voice resumes, " _Not in the picture anymore; casualties of the botched operation; thanks to me, A.G.R.A is no more. Sorry about that, but your team was expendable in the pursuit of a greater purpose._ "

The voice's use of those particular initials set off a frisson of fear. Whoever this is, knows too much about the operation and is claiming to be the one responsible for its failure.

She tenses her pelvic floor, trying to determine if the USB drive is still in its usual place. She used to tease Gabriel that it's easier for a woman, when he'd had to remove his from his rectum every time he had to have a shit. The coil stopped her periods, and the memory stick was almost identical to a tampon in size and weight, making her vagina the best hiding place. In a Muslim country, it was highly unlikely that anyone would go investigating up there but then again, she's not dealing with locals, now.

The initials are on the memory stick in nail polish. She prays that it is as far as her interrogator had got. The contents should be safely encrypted.

" _Interesting exercise in cryptography, I have to say_ ," continues the synthetic, unemotional voice that sounds eerily as if Stephen Hawking is conducting the interrogation.

Sweat prickles the nape of Rosemary's neck. Has this person broken the code? She knew that GCHQ couldn't do it, and neither Langley or the NSA had been able to, either.

" _You have an impressive CV, my dear. Could prove rather useful._ "

Is this a taunt? A suggestion that the person behind the voice had broken the code, when in fact he hadn't? She'd been reliably informed it couldn't be broken, given that the cipher was only known by the four of them. Had this voice been able to capture one of the others? Had they been tortured to give up the key? Her mind is racing to know how far this betrayal has gone.

The synthetic voice crackles into life again: " _It's a pity that Gabriel had to die; he's quite talented when it comes to IT things, if this code is anything to go by. I suppose the GRU knows how to train its hackers._ "

Rosemary closes her eyes in dismay, no longer caring if the webcam on the laptop can see her. Whoever has captured her has managed to crack the memory stick—they know _everything_ , now. Gabriel wasn't always Gabriel. He was born Gavriil Illyovich Volkov, and he was trained in the GRU's Spetsnaz. Of the three men in the team, Mary had always been closest to Gabe. They spoke Russian to each other, which neither Alex nor Ajay understood.

She takes a moment to mourn the loss of him. The fact that whoever is on the other end of this conversation knew who Gabriel really was tells her that the content of the memory stick is known. The fact that she is still alive puzzles her—until she recalls the comment ' _could be useful_ '.

Perhaps she can negotiate her way out of this. "What can I do for you?"

She waits out the now-predictable pause. The Hawking voice responds, " _Compliments on adopting the right attitude, my dear._ _You and I can do business. I have a package that I need to have moved from this country across a border and then to Moscow. It is not a job for an amateur. I believe you have a reason to want to follow that same route. Am I right?_ "

She nods warily.

" _Good. In return for sparing your life and giving you the means to escape, I ask only two things in return. First, that you protect the package with your life, if necessary. And second, if the mission is successful, you will be called upon at some later date to do me a service. Given your skill set, that could be very handy indeed. A_ _quid pro quo_ , _if you will._ "

There is a pause, as if he expected her to say something. She keeps quiet; wanting his captor to sweat a bit _._

" _Tamaz Kipiani will see to your injuries and bring you food and water. When you have recovered, we will speak again. Don't try to leave; you will be killed. Gavrill tried, failed and paid the price. You are only useful to me if you are alive._ "

Rosemary finds that her anger at Gabe's death sharpens her tongue. "Why should I trust you? You've just admitted to setting up the ambush and killing at least one if not more of my teammates. Why would that make me willing to cooperate?"

After a moment—making her wonder if he is relying on asynchronous translation—the voice responds " _The alternative is to earn favour by handing you over to the security services here in Georgia. The_ _Sakartvelos Dazvervis Samsakhuri will be far less willing to keep you alive; their overzealous interrogation tactics have already killed one of the people who took the ambassador hostage. It seems they don't take kindly to someone taking hostages. I have let them believe that it was Abkhazian terrorists who were responsible._ "

She digests this news. She had not been told anything about who the people who had taken the UK consulate and its people as hostages were, only about how to get the Ambassador and her husband out. Only being given half the story was part and parcel of a mercenary's lot. It made sense that freelancers were seldom trusted with all of the intelligence. It was standard procedure that they were given only the bare minimum needed to execute their mission.

Perhaps this Hawking-voiced interrogator was the one who had been behind the original hostage-taking; she knows that there is a lot here she doesn't understand. Starting with the first one, she asks, "Why would you trust me?"

The synthesized laugh sounds very odd, but she guesses that machine voices haven't quite got the knack yet. " _Because you have no real alternative; think of this as a fortuitous collision of your needs and mine._ "

It may not be the way she would have preferred to exit Georgia, but if the voice is not spinning a tale, what is on offer is better than any of the alternatives she can imagine.

Mary nods, bowing to the inevitable. Feigning co-operation will, at the very least, buy her time.

oOoOoOoOo

The next five days crawl by. That she is in the hands of someone used to dealing with prisoners becomes clear. She is not given clothing, and there is nowhere to hide anything that might be a tool, even if she'd been able to find one. While she had still been taped to the metal chair, the guard had freed her left hand and arm, cleaning and bandaging the track of the bullet across her wrist. He knew what he was doing, someone with a reasonable amount of battlefield first aid was her guess. In AGRA, she'd been the one who had learned a field nurse's skills so an injured member could be patched up until proper medical help was available.

While her damaged left wrist slowly heals, her right remains handcuffed and chained to a metal ring in the wall. Enforced bedrest seems to be sorting her ankle, too. She has just enough slack in the chain to be able to move on and off the camp bed to use the plastic bucket as a loo. When she is told to lie on the bed, Tamaz pushes a tray to what will be just within her reach when she is off the bed and at the limit of the chain. He uses a stout stick to do the pushing of the tray, avoiding coming anywhere near her. He's taking no chances.

Water is in a plastic bottle that she has to roll across the floor to him when it's empty. Food appears on the tray twice a day in the form of a paper plate of rice with a slop of some sort of potato stew. It has an unusual flavour—not unpleasant, but hard to place. She fights the boredom by trying to identify the constituent ingredients. Quite salty, and a hefty dose of garlic that she realises she can also smell on the breath of the guard when he isn't busy smoking. The fresh herbs are easy: flat-leaf parsley and purple-leafed basil. She can also detect coriander and paprika as well as caraway seeds. But, there are other things that are distinctly foreign to her taste buds.*

Tamaz, besides being her warden, is also the cook. He prepares the simple meals on a primus stove outside of the room. Rosemary tries to engage him in conversation, but it would seem that her captor has instructed him not to speak to her. Each morning, the tray has a new bandage, an antiseptic wipe and pre-cut tape to hold it in place. No chance of getting a pair of scissors that could be used as a weapon.

She lies there, hour after hour in the drowsy heat, going through each and every minute of their operation to work out how it all went wrong. When she isn't doing that or asleep, she tries to listen in the hope of hearing something outside the room that will tell her where she is being held. Not somewhere in the centre, that is clear. There is little sound of traffic or the hubbub of a densely populated urban area. Nor are there any sounds that would come from a rural countryside setting—no animal noises, bells on cattle or sheep, a dog barking in the distance. No scent of a fire of wood or dung. Nothing really, apart from the wind and the occasional rattle of the hut's window frames or door.

On the fifth day, however, there is a change. A car comes up what sounds like a rough track and stops outside. Even standing on the bed and craning her neck, she's still too short to see out the window, but can hear Tamaz talking to someone. Then the car door slams and it is off back down the track, its springs creaking through what sounds like a whole series of potholes.

Tamaz re-enters the room, carrying a duffle bag. She watches him sling it across the floor until it lands within reach.

"Get dressed and prepare. In four days, I move you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Svetani Salt is a mixture of dried coriander, dried dill, blue fenugreek, dried red pepper, dried marigold petals, cumin seeds, mixed with coarse white salt and powdered garlic.


	2. Transit

"Welcome to Tbilisi, Miss Saunders."

The Georgian's smile is infectious, and his English is barely accented. She responds in an accent that matches her birthplace on the fake passport that had been in the duffle bag. Mary Saunders is a thirty-four-year-old resident of Trenton, New Jersey.

She parks the bubble-gum she is chewing in the side of her cheek and shakes his hand firmly. "Well, gee; it's great to be here. I can't believe I'm actually here on my vacation of a life-time."

Sami, as he insists she call him, introduces her to the rest of the group. They turn out to be mostly European: a collection of three young Italian guys from Trentino in the Dolomites, one French woman who's done the famous GR10 across the Pyrenees, a couple from Harrogate in the north of England. The group is completed by a middle-aged Austrian and a German. The German is fiftyish, and sticks out because he's mute; cancer of the larynx had cost him his voice six years ago; he communicates via a pad on which he types a message. Everyone has some level of understanding of English, which makes it the lingua franca of the group. When instructions about crevasse walking need to be clear, it's important that everyone will get it.

She is relieved that her cover means that she is the only American. Despite having worked in the USA, it's not her favourite skin. Her Czech origins makes it easier for her to work in the field as a European. German, French, English, anything in Scandinavia or Eastern Europe works best. Play-acting a middle-class American can be trickier; they always seem to have that fresh-faced innocence that assumes everyone in their country shared the same upbringing, watched the same kiddie television programmes, played with the same dolls, got all the jokes.

Tamaz had deposited her and the duffle bag of trekking clothing and gear at The Visit, a three-star hotel in the Saburtalo district of Georgia's capital city. The Caucus Trekking Company's joining instructions had been in the duffle bag. She'd spent four days exploring the contents, which held every item of clothing and equipment had been specified on their list. Mary—as she now has to think of herself—had noticed that the sizes were perfect; even the boots fitted in a way that is surprising. The fact that they are not new but suitably broken in and even a bit worn satisfies her natural instinct for detail.

She finds it reassuring that the Hawking Man, as she has dubbed the mystery voice, has such a good eye for detail. Whatever package she is expected to carry over the border during this trekking party in Georgia to Mount Ushba and then across to Mount Elbrus in Russia, no expense has been spared in getting her disguise sorted. There is no mystery package in the duffel bag, but there are some fine topographical maps of the area where they will be trekking.

Mary— _not Rosemary, not anymore—_ has given this material the respect it is due. After all, it pays to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. While promising her the route out of Georgia she so desperately needs, she worries about the price. What package could possibly justify such an elaborate scheme, and why choose her? She hasn't found the answer to that question anywhere in that duffel bag.

Not having an answer to that question preys on her mind. If she weren't so desperate, there is no way she'd agree to such an open-ended a commitment. It's the sort of thing all of her training and her field experience should ganged up to shriek 'no way'. _._

It's just that she hardly has a choice.

All she can do is hope to get out of Georgia and then run like hell to avoid whatever demands Hawking Man is going to make as her payment for the passage.

Tamaz's only instruction as he dropped her at the hotel was simple: "You play tourist. Package will find its way to you." He seemed delighted to see the back of her. Perhaps the role of looking after a woman had somehow offended his sense of honour. She didn't mind; being underestimated is a useful attribute. No one expects a bouncy, bubbly blonde who is only five foot three inches tall to be a significant threat.

oOoOoOo

After the first night's group dinner at the hotel, Sami takes her aside. "Your health is okay now? I was sorry to hear about the car accident last week. You sure you are up to this?"

She nods, her newly dyed blonde curls bobbing. "Of course. Still a little bruised here and there, ankle aches and my wrist won't take any major strain but hey, there isn't any serious stuff before Elbrus so I should be fine for the trekking. Nothing's going to get between me and taking a closer look at those two mountains. No worries."

The duffel bag had a set of typed instructions about her cover and a story to explain her joining the group a day late as well as her recovery from the injuries. In fact, Mary is feeling much better. The bed-rest, food and first aid treatment have worked their magic.

The only thing she lacks is a weapon. The backpack had included an all-in-one camping utensil and a swiss army knife, but that was it. Being left-handed means the healing wrist will make it harder for her to use her martial arts skills at full throttle but, if the cover story works, she should have another five days of healing before it might be tested in the border crossing.

The orientation meeting the next morning expands on the details she'd found in the duffel bag. They are due to leave after lunch and drive to Mestia where the trek will begin.

"You'll be joined there by the Svan guides. The Svaneti region is quite wild, and very distinct from the rest of Georgia." Sami smiles and says conspiratorially, "They don't even speak Georgian," he adds conspiratorially—as if this were explanation enough for their wildness. "The trek up into the foothills is off the beaten track; most tourist routes will take you from Mestia through the valleys to Ushguli, but this is our signature trek, tailor-made so you can get to both Mount Ushba and Mount Elbrus. It may only be thirty kilometres between the two, but that's as the eagle flies, not as the human walks."

"We'll take the trip up to the Ushba glacier from Mazeri over four days to get you acclimatised to the higher altitudes and the climate. Work out a few kinks and get into the rhythm of life up there. The walk up to Mount Ushba is twenty-two kilometres with an elevation gain of a thousand meters. Some sections of the trail are steep, exposed and there's a tricky crossing over the Dolra river, so we won't rush." Sami points to the map that he's blue-tacked to the wall of the little meeting room. "We'll take a side trip to the waterfall here for some photos."

"To get to the base of Ushba itself will be a steep climb, but once we make it to three and half thousand meters, the walk from there across the glacier to the pass is pretty straight forward. From there, it's then a couple of nights. The first will be on the glacier, the second on the scree field going down into the Azau valley on the Russian side. Elbrus is Europe's highest mountain, but it's quite a popular tourist destination so there are a lot more signs of civilisation over there than on the Georgian side. The south face ascent of Elbrus by the standard route is technically easy, and we're going to be using some of the cable car lifts to make it even easier. So, this one you can claim as a summit."

One of the Italians raises a hand. "Is the area safe from militants? I hear there is trouble in the border area."

Sami shakes his head. "That's old news. This isn't South Ossetia, and it isn't Abkhazia. Your border area permits have been taken care of, nothing to worry about. Your passports will be checked by the Georgian border guards at the river crossing before the Shdughra waterfall, but there won't be anything else until we cross into Russia and go down to the A158 highway. That's where you'll be put up for a night at the hotel, to let you have a decent shower and some proper hot food, and the Russian guides From Pilgrim Treks will meet you and brief you about the ascent of Mount Elbrus. They've also got all the technical equipment you need, so you don't have to carry any from our side of the border. Any questions?"

Mary tunes out most of the rest of the briefing, which is mostly about weather conditions and whether the local Svan guides speak English well enough to explain the hazards of the crevasse fields on the glaciers. One of the trekkers, a middle-aged Austrian from Linz wants to know details about the emergency rescue services on both sides of the border. Sami reassures everyone that both trekking companies, his and the Pilgrim group are highly experienced and that this area is well served by mountain rescue teams. The trekking party will be in constant contact through satellite phones. "It's not as remote as anywhere in the Himalayas or Karakoram ranges, so please don't worry."

Sami tells everyone that this trek should live up to their expectations. "We've been running this trip for almost a decade, so relax and enjoy yourselves."

If only she could. Until Mary knows what the hell the package is that she is expected to carry and what price she is going to be expected to pay for the privilege of escaping, there is no way she can possible enjoy herself.

oOoOoOo

_Relax. Three deep breaths._ It's a little mantra that Mary is using to keep herself from worrying about when the mystery package is going to show up. Mestia is the central town of the region, but more hamlet than city. The rest of the group has been taken off to the Museum of History and Ethnography while she uses the excuse of her bruises to put her feet up and think hard about what is coming. It may be that whoever is delivering the package will see her staying behind at their quaint guesthouse as the perfect excuse to contact her without arousing suspicions.

It's the nature of the package that has her most worried. She's already dismissed the idea of someone using her to carry something as mundane as drugs; the arrangements have been too elaborate for that, and the quantity that she could possibly conceal in her backpack is way too small to make it sensible. Truck loads from Afghanistan would be the more popular choice, using the porous borders between Russia, South Ossetia and Georgia as the preferred route. Guns or some other weaponry would have the same problem of size and weight. There are far easier ways of getting this stuff across a border in the quantity that would make the risks worthwhile.

So, what could it be? One thing is certain: it needs to be small enough to be portable by a trekker.

Information? In this day and age of electronic transfers, the idea seems preposterous. Why go to all the trouble? Encryption means that digital data flows through the dark web; no need for a human carrier pigeon.

Whatever it is, the person sending it is clearly an opportunist, using her capture as a fortunate coincidence, a case of someone useful being in the right place at the right time. So, it has to be a one-off, otherwise why leave it to chance?

The fact that the transfer has to be in person and hidden means it must be dangerous. The fact that Hawking Man is unwilling to trust a local person to make this journey speaks volumes—just not in a language that she can understand just yet.

After an hour of her thoughts going around in circles, Mary concludes that she is going to get no further until someone actually shows up with the package.

oOoOoOo

The next day starts with a bumpy minivan drive from Mestria to Mazeri, the last Svan village before the start of their trek. Here, Sami hands them over to the two Svan guides, Levan Dadiani and Giorgi Kipiani.

Levan is the older of the two yet couldn't be much over thirty. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he's got a trimmed beard and moustache. He's not very tall, but well-built and muscular, dressed in the usual sort of international expedition clothing. The exception is a grey felted hat that seems local; the design is somewhere between an Afghan pakol and an Islamic kufi. Mary notes that he moves with the assurance of someone who knows he's in charge. In contrast, the younger Giorgi is slimmer and less confident. His English is a bit basic, and he eyes the trekkers with an air of what Mary can only describe as suspicion. He is on edge for some reason which makes her uneasy, too.

The rest of the group members are packing up their gear under Levan's watchful eye. He's distributing some of the food and camp equipment amongst the group. "No Sherpas here," he says when he gets to her. Because of her diminutive size relative to the others, he goes easy on her when it comes to the size of the load that needs carrying.

"You don't have to, you know. I am not some barbie doll," she snarks in her New Jersey accent.

"Don't worry. When you've shown you can manage the first few days on those bruises, you'll get more."

Giorgi seems to be more concerned about how they are packing than what they are packing. When he gets to the German guy, who Mary now knows is named Axel Reichmann, the Svan unceremoniously dumps the contents of the backpack out onto the floor. He picks through the various items, as if he is looking for something that shouldn't be there. Disappointed, the Svan grunts "Pack again. Too much heavy stuff at the bottom. Hurt your back."

Mary sees anger flare very briefly in the German's dark eyes.

Axel reaches for the white board and the marker pen. He's sensibly no longer relying on the tablet; on the trek, batteries cannot be charged. He furiously scrawls something large enough that she can read it at this distance. _Piss off. My back/my pack_.

She smirks. He's clearly got a temper and doesn't like to be told what to do. His wavy dark hair is longer than many of his generation would have worn it; it makes Mary wonder where in Germany he's from because he has none of the rounded cheeks or blond features that are common there. _Not a Bavarian, that's for sure._ Perhaps the cancer had made him dour and pessimistic; whatever the reason, he's made little or no effort to communicate so far with most of the group. His muteness seems consistent with his temperament. She finds him… interesting, although she's not exactly sure why.

Giorgi glares at him and then stomps off. Mary wonders what is behind the antipathy. _Not my problem._ What _is_ her problem is the fact that she is no closer to working out what her mission really involves.

oOoOoOoOo

Three days later, as their route approaches the glacier, she is still worrying about why the mystery package has not materialised. They've done the tourist things: the walk up the valley, the photos of the waterfall, the casual conversations. They've met a few other hikers on day trips, but no one has approached her. As might be expected of the trekking group, the Italian boys keep to themselves; the British couple are more interested in each other than in talking to younger people. The Austrian and the German don't know each other, and the latter's lack of a voice limits conversation anyway, so the Austrian has been swapping summit bragging rights and climbing stories with Marie, the French woman. He's spent a lot of time in the Alps, and has learned French to be able to work with the best climbers.

Mary has been engaging in just enough conversation with all of them to keep in her character while also trying to figure out if any of them might be the source of the mystery package. So far, the reactions towards her have been polite, if a bit distant—the way one might expect people to react to a single person with whom one has little in common. It's been frustrating.

She also has to admit that she's feeling the effects of her injuries: when they camp, it is all she can manage to do to eat her supper and crawl into the sleeping bag and the tent she is sharing with the French climber. Mary has decided that her American disguise means she doesn't speak French, so they manage to co-exist with sign language and gestures interspersed with the occasional bit of English that the French woman is willing to concede.

Despite what Sami had said back in Tbilisi, when they come to the small hut that serves as the border inspection post, the two guards there seem intent on scrutinising _everything._ Passport, contents of their backpacks, even a body search. Mary notes that they are a little apologetic when it comes to the two women. Marie just rolls her eyes as she is patted down and mutters something about dignity.

Mary pops her bubble gum and puts on a bored expression, wise-cracking, "You should see what the US border folks get up to—grope city."

Levan is still apologising an hour later when they make a lunch stop. "Sometimes these guys just feel like they have to prove they are worth their wages, and I guess it wasn't our lucky day. Anyway, let's eat!"

It's the last proper food they will have before they get down to civilisation on the Russian side of the border; above snow line, the food they carry will be freeze-dried and has to be heated on a primus stove.

To celebrate, Levan unpacks some Georgian delicacies he's been carrying since Mazrui. They gorge on _kubdari,_ something that looks to her eye like a thin Cornish pasty; a pork and beef meat pie, seasoned with onions and that combination of spices that Mary recognises from the days of her captivity. Tamaz had been a better cook than whoever produced these; or, perhaps after their trek up, the pastry is a bit tired. Marie, being a vegetarian, gets her own version—a _kartoplaar_ which contains potatoes and cheese instead of meat.

Giorgi is busy with a stove and a big pot into which he slices potatoes and a cheese. Levan explains as he drops a dollop of the cheesey mash into their metal plates. "It's _Tashmijabi_. The more the _sulghuni_ cheese stretches, the better it is." Mary decides it tastes a bit like a salty version of mozzarella.

Levan explained that, as most of the population of Svan live above 2000 meters, the choice of food is limited but suitable for the conditions. For the trekkers, it is sensible fuel for the climb ahead: carbohydrates, protein and salt, washed down with a lot of bottled water. Until now, there had been a risk of sheep and goats polluting the streams and rivers with bacteria. Levan had made it clear as soon as they'd put on their backpacks; "Diarrhoea is no fun and dysentery is really serious. So bottled water only, until we get above snow line."

They work off the lunch by ascending through a scree field. It is heavy going: stones that slip and slide under their weight make walking treacherous, requiring concentration to avoid turning an ankle. The stress and strain on her damaged ankle demand additional focus; Mary has no time to think of anything other than avoiding a fall that will make it impossible for her to continue. As worried as she is about when the package is going to show up, an even greater fear is being forced to return to Tbilisi because of an injury. Escape means she has to keep going, so she increases the dosage of ibuprofen and Co-codamol tablets that had been in the duffel bag.

Standing on the first patch of snow that they've come across after the tail through the scree, Levan starts to explain the challenges. "Once we get onto the glacier, the danger increases a lot. Crevasses are the main problem. They can be tens of meters deep and if you fall into one, it could kill you. Even with the help of emergency services, falling into one can be fatal very quickly, even if the fall itself doesn't end you. If you keep to bare ice then you will see the crevasse. Avoid snow. Do not wander from the route that is being taken. I will lead and Giorgi will bring up the rear. When you see the crevasse, no curiosity. Just stay away from the edges because these are slippery. The edges are also weak and could collapse from under you. The worst danger is when you see snow— because you don't know what's under it. Snow can drift across a crevasse, creating a bridge that looks solid, but it won't carry your weight."

He instructs them on how to fit the crampons to their boots, and Giorgi checks to be sure they are tight. She teases him that she likes seeing a man kneeling at her feet, but the Svan doesn't smile. 

Levan tells them to take their ice axes off their packs and ensure the strap handle is secure around their wrists. "Don't think the axe will save you; in fact, the opposite could be true. To be effective, they have to be sharp, and even professional mountaineers have been injured or killed by falling on their ice axes. So, be careful. Once you leave the trailhead, you are going to be roped to your buddy. It is your responsibility to stay close to and to keep track of the safety of this buddy at all times."

Reichmann, the mute German, positions himself so he is paired with her. She decides to let this happen; it would seem to be the first overt approach anyone has really made to her. His white board and attached pen are dangling from his pack, within easy reach. Once they are roped together, he loiters and she meekly stays with him, so the two of them are near the back, behind the three Italians who have chosen to be roped as a trio.

As they head out, Reichmann isn't looking at her but at the mountains and the ice. His sunglasses obscure his eyes; her own dark lenses mean he can't see her studying him. She feels a frisson of fear; is this intuition about him? Perhaps Giorgi's earlier search of the pack was in pursuit of the mystery package? He could hand it over at some point and then use his disability as an excuse to return to Mazeri. It's the most likely scenario she can some up with.

The group moves slowly, steadily carefully up the glacier. There is standing water on the ice which makes things slippery, but the crampons help. They are single-file, treading in the footsteps on the person in front of them, trusting Levan to keep them safe.

After almost two hours, with the sun starting to cast serious shadows, he calls a halt. "We camp here tonight. Make sure to use metal ice spikes to hold the tents down." He points to a relatively flat icy area to the side, "That's the designated toilet, don't wander off to have a pee. In fact, I suggest you all try to do your business now, while it's still light enough. Anything solid will be frozen by morning and we'll bag it and take it with us. If you do have to get out of your tent at night, you have to wake your buddy." He grins at them. "So, before you unrope yourselves, form an orderly queue while Giorgi and I get the stove started to melt some water. It's best you get used to doing this with your buddy now on the flat; tomorrow is going to be steeper and more of a challenge. While each of you takes a turn, everyone else just look east at the view up to the horns of the devil."

Mount Ushba is towering above them, its twin peaks looking rather demonic, indeed. The mountain top looks set ablaze by the setting sun.

Mary has never been hung up about modesty; prudishness had gone out the window when she'd been working as the only woman in a special ops team. To keep in character, however, she asks Axel to turn his back when she struggles to get her expedition trousers down. "It's alright for you guys; just point and shoot. Women have a tougher time." When she squats, she uses the ice axe to give herself some stability in the crouch. The stress on her ankle makes it throb.

Later, they sit in the twilight eating something that may be labelled freeze-dried spaghetti bolognaise. The taste is indescribably dull, and she ends up digging out of her pocket one of the energy bars that had been included in her duffel bag. She notices that the German has had the same idea; he's unwrapped a bar which she realises is the same brand as hers. She shows him her snack, eyes fixed on his features to gauge his reaction. When he turns his head to look at her, she raises an eyebrow in a question.

He grabs the white board dangling from his belt and scrawls something very quickly. When she angles her head torch to read it, she realises it is written in Cyrillic, which startles her.

_Почему так долго?_

She instantly translates it in her head: ' _What took you so long?'_

He must somehow know that she knows Russian. And that means… _Hawking Man!_


	3. You Owe Me

Mary controls her reactions so anyone looking at them would not know anything was amiss. The German is looking at her with a knowing smile.

He isn't just her contact.

She's been so stupid, missing the most obvious clue of all. The gaps in their conversation back in the hut when she'd been tied naked to the bed was due to Axel typing the message that had been voiced by the synthesiser.

Axel's erased the question and is now scrawling a new message on the board: _Giorgi maybe SDS agent, looking for courier. You need to deflect/protect._

She nods, as he erases the marks with his sleeve. She says quietly in English, "What is the package?"

He smirks. Turning to her, he uses his lips to create an English word without voice: " _Me_."

Confirming what she's realised—Axel wants her to act as his bodyguard—she nods.

"Mission accepted."

oOoOoOoOo

Whatever Giorgi might suspect about Axel, Mary realises that he isn't sure. Over the next two days, as they walk further up the glacier towards the pass over the border, Mary watches as the Svan stages another inspection of everyone's belongings under the guise of collecting the group supplies that each of them is carrying. Giorgi's growing frustration is evident though when he starts getting nosier about their individual belongings. He starts conversations about their clothing and equipment, saying he wants to learn more about the different brands and how good they are. Most of the trekkers seem happy to brag about their kit; it's something on which a lot of them have spent lots of time and money.

She decides that the best way to 'deflect and protect' is to get closer to Giorgi, so she starts an energetic campaign of flirtation. After all, a single American woman on her holidays might well be interested in a bit of local R&R with an attractive young man. Alas, he seems impervious to her attempts, but she doesn't give up.

Levan is willing to answer her questions about Giorgi, even if he obviously thinks she is barking up the wrong tree. "No, he's not married, and he doesn't have a girlfriend. He's a former army man; like a lot of Svans, he went into the military as an escape route from his family. Got involved in the Abkhazia conflict as a ranger but, once that settled down, he was demobbed and came back to Mestia. He's my cousin's tenant so I am trying him out on this run. I think he has what it takes to do this expedition work. Because this is his first trek of Elbrus, he wants to be sure the gear is up to it. So, he's being like a soldier on inspection duty—a bit over-zealous."

The older Svan seems amused by Mary's interest. "Looking for a little holiday romance? Not likely. Svan men don't tend to mess around. We're a pretty conservative bunch."

She notices that Levan lets Giorgi do the regular satellite phone calls back to Sami—one every day at six pm. Mary listens to the odd glottal stops and the consonant clusters; it sounds as odd as the Georgian alphabet appears to her eyes. She's not the only one listening in; Axel seems as interested as she is.

When she asks Axel if he understands Georgian, he nods, frowns and then writes on the board ' _But not Svan._ '

Axel lets Giorgi go through his pack in search of team supplies and this time, he doesn't raise a fuss. Mary takes some comfort in that fact that, as long as the man keeps looking for something as opposed to _someone,_ they're safe.

When Giorgi shows up on their second morning on the glacier, as she and Marie are taking down their tent, he picks up the fiberglass poles and examines the fittings closely, looking down the tubes.

She smiles flirtatiously and asks, "Maybe you'd like to share a tent with me?" When he frowns, she gives him a disappointed look. "Don't you like blondes?"

When he shakes his head, she can't resist asking, "What can I do to get you to smile?"

"Nothing," he mutters and stalks off.

oOoOoOoOo

When they are out of Giorgi's earshot, Mary has taken to talking to Axel in German. If the Svan is an agent of the Georgian security services, then it is quite likely he speaks Russian, so they've stopped using that language. As long as they are roped together as buddies, it makes sense for her to be seen to be talking to him in his 'native' language, which the Svan is less likely to know. When they can't be overheard by the Austrian either, she drops into a strange sort of game of twenty questions, where an answer can be given by a nod or shake of the head.

Most of all, she is concerned with Reichmann's health. Surreptitiously, when they take a rest break, she takes his pulse, checks what she can visibly, and asks him about his breathing. "This thin air, the altitude, it's affecting you more than you thought it would?"

She gets a reluctant nod, which worries her. Mary's not familiar with the consequences of a laryngectomy beyond the obvious basics. Trying to get his air through the stoma must be making it harder for him. The scars are well-healed, so she estimates it's been years. She has noticed, however, that he prefers soft foods and liquids, chewing solids very thoroughly. He is also finding the walking to be challenging; he's not as fit or muscular as the others. While the expedition clothing hides a lot of it, Mary sees the weakness in his knees, the occasional cramping calf.

"If you start to feel dizzy or your vision is affected, you have to tell me. Don't ignore it. If you pass out, then it's going to be an emergency evacuation back to a hospital in Georgia, and all this will be a waste of time," she warns.

The closer they get to the pass, the more apparent it becomes that he is struggling with the altitude. When the air is thin and so cold, everyone's breathing is affected, hers included. More often than not, they end up as the last pair in the line.

When Levan asks them why they are straggling, Mary steps in before Axel can get his white board out. "It's my fault. I guess I've not recovered as much as I thought I had from the accident. I just have to go slower." She flashes him a bright cheery smile. "Don't you worry. I'll make it. Once we're over the pass, it's downhill all the way."

_Deflect and protect._ She puts on a limp, and when they stop for a breather, she makes sure everyone's eyes are on her, not the pale-faced man to whom she is roped.

oOoOoOoOo

By the time they get off the ice and onto the scree fields on the Russian side of the border, her limp is not a fake. And neither is Axel's rasping breath. That night, he retires before the Austrian, with whom he has been sharing a tent, has finished his dinner.

Mary excuses herself from the campfire that they're sitting around. "Best give my buddy a check," she explains, as she limps away.

As soon as she raps on the tent pole, the zip is opened, and Axel beckons her in. Before he can start writing on the white board that he is shining a torch on, she interrupts. "Let's make this easy. I'm going to assume that you're not planning on going up Elbrus. If you were, now's the time for me to tell you to get real. I don't have a stethoscope, but my guess is that you're working on pneumonia. You look feverish, your breathing is shallow and too fast to sustain, plus the coarse raspiness is new. You've got a good excuse to bail out as soon as we get to the rendezvous point. I can easily fake my ankle being bad enough that I have to stop, too. Once we've made it down to the road, I assume that you've made arrangements?"

He nods.

"Good. That means the only challenge is going to be getting rid of Giorgi. He's most likely to try to escort us; Levan won't want us to think he's leaving us to our own devices since the company prides itself on looking after its guests. So, Georgi will use it as an excuse to come with us because the two of us bailing at this stage is a classic courier trick."

He nods again.

"I won't be able to deflect his attention from you, and it's going to be challenging to protect you without a weapon."

He scrawls a line and points outside the tent, looking to see if she understands.

"The path?"

After he nods, the marker pen is in motion again, meandering until it intersects at a T junction with what she soon recognises as a road.

"Okay."

Axel coughs and wheezes a bit before continuing. To the left of the road he draws an arrow and a small triangle.

"Elbrus?"

After the nod, he goes back to the junction, measures a thumb's width to the left and marks a small X, writing _inn_. He uses a hand signal of two fingers and then snaps his fingers.

She nods, voicing the meaning of that gesture, "Two kilometres then."

She files away the fact that what follows is also a tactical army gesture for a pistol and ammunition.

"Oh! Clever you. You've organised a cache at the first night's stop."

He smiles as he writes, _'then Nalchik hospital'._

"Preferably in one piece, yes. With a gun, I can do that."

oOoOoOoOo

Mary has to hand it to the Hawking Man. He's organised this well. So well, in fact, that he doesn't have to do much to make the scenario happen apart from crawl into the seat of the minivan taxi that has met them at the junction of the path and the road. There's not much acting involved; it's about all he is capable of doing. and she is very grateful that it's a short journey to the inn.

As soon as they get into the reception area, she helps Axel into a chair and tells him to keep his head down. He'd nearly fainted on the short journey from the car park to reception and she'd ended up half carrying him until Levan noticed and rushed over to help her get him inside.

While the hotel receptionist is dealing with the passports and handing out keys to the other trekkers who are looking forward to their first hot showers and cooked meal in a week, Mary tells Levan that that he's going to have to organise a medical evacuation. She volunteers to accompany Axel. "My ankle is getting worse and I think I'm going to have to bail, too."

He's not surprised, and seems rather relieved that she's said this, confessing to wanting to ask them both to remain at the hotel while the rest of the group heads east to make a few preparatory climbs before the Elbrus summit bid.

As she monitors Axel's breathing and sees some colour returning to his face, the two Svans enter into an in-depth discussion with the two Russian guides that have met them at the Edel'vey inn. Within minutes, the guides seem to have come to a conclusion. Georgi is on his satellite phone back to Sami; the Russians are on their mobiles. Clearly, mobile phone connections work well here—something that doesn't surprise Mary. This is Russia, after all, and the border with Georgia will be considered a military priority when it comes to resources. Under the guise of promoting tourism to this part of the Federation, the government will have ensured the infrastructure is capable of supporting its military.

Levan snags the first key from the receptionist and brings it back to Mary. "Ground floor; he can rest there until the ambulance comes. The hospital in Nalchik is sending one to collect Mister Reichmann tonight. It will take them about an hour and a half to get here. Are you sure you want to go, too?"

She nods and says, "Yeah, buddy system and all that. Anyway, I'd just slow everyone else up, even if this damned ankle of mine had a miraculous recovery. I've had a stress fracture before, and this is starting to feel a lot like one."

Levan tells her that Giorgi has agreed to accompany them. "We want to see that everything is okay. Once you're in Nalchik, he'll inform Sami back in Tbilisi and the two of them will make arrangements for your return home. Don't worry. These things happen."

As soon as she's got Axel in his room and lying down, she has one more task. "Where is it?" she asks quietly.

Weakly, he gestures for the white board. Once it's in his hands, the marker pen seems to have a life of its own and he struggles to make the scrawl legible.

Eventually, she manages to decipher the scribbles: "Gazebo?"

He can barely manage a nod before his eyes close.

She uses her sleeve to erase the board. As soon as she drops her pack into the bedroom she is sharing with the French climber, Mary announces that she's going to explore the hotel grounds before it gets dark.

Surprised, Marie asks, "The ankle? I thought it hurt?"

"It does. But if I stop now, it's going to seize up and if this is the closest I'm going to get to Elbrus, I want to see the damned thing before it gets dark."

It's a pretty weak excuse, but Marie seems happy enough to bag the first shower to wave her off.

The grounds are surprisingly large, enough to strain her ankle before she eventually finds the small gazebo. Luckily, it is empty and surrounded by trees; no one observes her thorough search. The light is starting to fade as she finds the weapon; it's wrapped in a plastic waterproof pouch, taped to the underside of an eave.

Ten minutes later, as she goes down the hall to Axel's room, Mary's smile of appreciation is still on her face. Her loot is a PL-15, one of the newest semi-automatic pistols, better than the standard Markova issue used by the Russian security forces. It's now fully loaded and safely hidden down the back of her trousers, disguised by bulky pullover she's wearing against the cold. The extra ammunition magazine is hidden in her underpants, as is the silencer. It would take a full-scale body search to find them because she's covered them with a large sanitary towel. It's been enough to stop many a male searcher in the past.

The smile is wiped off her face as she finds Giorgi is in the room with Axel. A quick exchange of glances between her and Axel is enough to stop her from taking any decisive action. The Svan's not had any time to do anything other than unpack everything from Axel's backpack, rooting through the stuff to find what is the expedition's kit.

"Have to take stuff to the others for their trek. Your pack, too," the Svan mutters. "Lots missing… What have you done with it?" He growls at Axel.

Smiling sweetly, she says, " I've been carrying some of his stuff, given he's so ill. Marie is already in my room. Just knock on the door to make sure she's out of the shower and take what you need. Tell her to just shove everything back in and bring it down to the reception desk. I'm going to sit with him here until the ambulance arrives." No way is she going to risk the Svan getting aggressive about what he thinks they might be carrying.

Mary thinks Giorgi will wait before doing anything more overt until they reach the hospital; he is likely to assume that this where a courier will hand over the package, whatever it is.

Axel lets his eyes close as soon as the Svan leaves the room.

Mary grabs his shoulder and gives it a shake. "Hey, not yet. Nearly safe, but we still have twenty questions to play before you can relax. I need to know the who, when and where of your collection in Nalchik. Then, I promise, you can sleep."

oOoOoOoOo

As Axel is wheeled into the private room on the third floor of Nalchik hospital, Mary heaves a sigh of relief. He'd lost consciousness on the outskirts of the city—the capital of the Kabardino-Balkar Russian Republic. It's a surprising oasis of modernity after the long drive through the empty forests down from the heights of the Caucus mountain ranges. Within minutes of setting off from the inn, she'd pushed the rather useless paramedic aside to jury-rig the oxygen feed into Axel's stoma, since the standard mask wouldn't work.

Now that he's under a doctor's care, she can finally take the weight off her ankle. With hindsight, Mary now realises that it wasn't just her special ops training that had attracted the attention of Hawking Man; her nursing skills would have been a decisive element, too—something that few bodyguards would have in this part of the world. Add to that the fact that almost everyone underestimates a woman, especially one her size and shape, and Mary can see why she'd been chosen. All of her skills had been needed on the journey between the inn and the hospital.

Before it had been taken off her, the PL-15 had been useful. While she'd never liked the idea of killing in cold blood, Mary is a realist. Taking advantage of surprise means that at times scruples have to be sacrificed. She hadn't asked for this assignment, but it was the only way she was going to survive. _Them or me._ When put that starkly, self-defence comes into play.

Her first bullet had killed Giorgi who had insisted on riding with them in the back; the second had taken the life of the ambulance paramedic who had been so useless at seeing to Axel's immediate needs. Her original plan had involved a third bullet—for the driver of the ambulance. The silencer on the pistol was good, but not _that_ good, and she'd only just got the sliding window open into the driver's area when he'd hit the brakes.

Mary had expected panic, perhaps a shout of _don't shoot,_ but what she got was a great guffaw of laughter and a hearty "Спасибо!" and the sight of a pistol being aimed straight at her.

She was still processing all that when the driver had followed up with "You've just saved me a lot of trouble."

In _English._

The ambulance skidded to a halt by the side of the road, and the driver kept his gun on her, smirking. "Stand down. I'm on your side. Well, _his_ to be more specific. I meant the thank you, by the way, for taking out the SDS agent and for getting rid of the other guy. He's not a paramedic, just an ex-army medic junkie I brought along to make this look authentic."

"Glad to be of service. Now that we're friends, perhaps you can put your gun away?"

"Only when you've handed back the PL-15," he'd said.

"I need it; while you dispose of the bodies, I'll keep an eye on the _package._ "

He'd shaken his head, laughing. "No way. The name's Ivan, by the way. I'm here to keep an eye on you. You get locked in the cab while I clean up the blood in the back and dig a couple of shallow graves. Try anything clever and I will dig one more for you. Once we're underway, you get to play nurse in the back, but I lock you in there. When we get to the hospital, if he's still alive, then so are you."

"I'm not a doctor," she protested, cursing internally.

Hawking Man had anticipated his vulnerability. Until the driver intervened, it had been her plan to let nature take its course; shut off the oxygen, and if that didn't do the trick, she'd have used the fifth bullet. Now that she had a passport, a gun and was in Russia, she could make her own way to safety. _Dead men can't collect a debt._

As if he is reading her mind, Ivan continues, "He knew he would be vulnerable to you once you were over the border. You might cut and run, he said. So, this is me telling you that if he dies, so do you. You underestimate this man at your peril, [ребенок](https://context.reverso.net/translation/russian-english/%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%B1%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BE%D0%BA).*"

Everything that has happened reinforces this message, as Mary is realising. From start to finish, the man's preparations have been clever and meticulous, leaving nothing to chance. Yet again, her respect for the man's cunning rose.

That said, Hawking Man wasn't superhuman. By the time they'd reached the hospital, her patient was in trouble, his breathing tachypneic and very shallow. She'd put the rig's stethoscope to use and heard the tell-tale rawl sounds of pneumonia. It's dangerous for an ordinary person, but for a person relying on a stoma and still recovering from altitude sickness, it was far worse.

Once the driver revealed that he was there to keep an eye on her, she knew Hawking Man had been clever enough to anticipate her plans. And despite his weakness back at the inn, he'd never once told her that the ambulance was part of the set-up; the first contact was supposed to have happened at the hospital. After turning over the PL-15 to the ambulance driver, he had also confiscated at gunpoint the Mary Saunders passport and her wallet, telling her that it would be kept until her departure.

All this had led to the moment at hand: she is sitting quietly in the chairs outside the ward, waiting for the doctor to tell her how the patient is getting on. With no gun, no money and no passport, her situation couldn't have been worse even if she'd been handcuffed to the waiting room chair. She knows she can't run. She also knows that if the doctors aren't successful in getting Hawking Man well enough to fly to Moscow, Ivan will tidy her up like the other loose ends he's deal with so far.

_Patience_ , she tells herself; at least she can use the time out here to do some serious thinking. She's learned from the admission procedure that her patient is no longer known as Axel Reichmann, but rather a Russian called Fyodr Knaslovsky, resident of Moscow. The bag Ivan brought in from the ambulance and handed over to the medical team had the details of their tourist trip to Terskol. She was introduced as his special "American Friend", one whose presence was permitted with a proper visa.

Before he'd left her, Ivan sat down next to her and rummaged through a pouch of travel documents, waving at her the two open-dated first-class Aeroflot tickets from Nalchik to Moscow's Sheremetyevo-Pushkin airport.

"When he's better, you get these. The deal is to get him safely to Moscow; once there, you'll be free to go. Until then, you wait and hope he survives. When my shift is over—yes, I am actually an ambulance driver—I will come back to collect you and take to a place where you will be held until he is well enough to move."

While the clock ticks the minutes away, Mary realises that she is lucky. If Hawking Man had only wanted her to take him to safety across the border, then she'd probably be dead by now—a loose end cleared up by the driver in the same way he'd planned to take out Giorgi and the ex-Army medic. He'd not been joking about digging another shallow grave out in the forest.

This must mean he wants to use her services again. And that is the reason why she is still alive.

It's a sobering thought. Given what she knows about the man, even being unconscious and confined to a bed has not stopped him from anticipating her every move and countering it.

Mary knows when she's been outsmarted. There aren't many people in this world who can invoke that kind of fear in her, but he has. Putting her elbows on her knees and her head down into her hands, she does her very best to push away the panic that has dogged her every moment since she met Hawking Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Little Woman, in Russian


	4. New Identities

**_-Three Years Later-_ **

The gust blows a small whirlwind of red dust down the road and straight into her eyes. Blinking furiously, Gabi yanks her cotton headscarf over her face, shielding her eyes, nose and mouth from the stinging grit. It doesn't do much to disguise the smell—the unmistakable stench of too many refugees crammed into too little space with open sewers and minimal supplies of water. Shifting the strap of her duffel bag a bit higher on her shoulder she plods on, keeping her head down.

The road is not really a road, more a rutted dusty track between rows of identical blue plastic sheet tents in the Aba displaced persons camp run by the UNHCR. It's just one of the displaced persons camps that now ring the state of South Sudan, mostly in Uganda and Kenya, providing emergency relief and humanitarian aid to the two and half million people who have fled the civil war in the very troubled country. This camp in the Haut Uèlè province of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is now the temporary home of nearly five thousand of the half million South Sudanese in the country.

 _From the frying pan into the fire_ , Gabi thinks; it's exactly the worst place refugees could have chosen. The local Hema and Lendu ethnic groups on this side of the border have been at war with each other sporadically for the past twenty years. The South Sudanese refugees are caught in the crossfire, victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It's somehow fitting that she has ended up here, hiding in the back of beyond. She, too, is a refugee fleeing from disaster, hoping to avoid attracting too much attention from the wrong kind of people.

Halfway through the camp, Gabi spots through the red haze the queue of women she's been looking for. Figures swathed in fabric are standing stoically, their backs turned to the dust storm. Those with children try to shelter them from the stinging sand. As she heads in their direction, Gabi spares some sympathy for them. Their journey here has been more arduous than hers. They came on foot as undocumented, anonymous victims of a civil war. Almost all of them are women; the men of their villages were rounded up and shot, or perhaps some of them are still fighting in the ranks of scattered guerrilla troops. Boys had been hauled off to become soldiers in the one side or another of the civil war. The psychological damage in these refugees is severe— many have been the victims of rape and most have experienced the trauma of watching their loved ones die. Some of the physical wounds Gabi has helped tend to have been horrific. Even with medical treatment, some are beyond help, their immune systems too compromised by starvation to be able to respond. Many children suffer from a tick list of about every disease going: kwashiorkor, measles, TB, rickets and — of course — malaria.

The first step will be to register the refugees as _Médecins Sans Frontières_ patients and then send them into the nurse's tent for triage. Gabi follows the snaking line of woman to the front and ducks into the clinic administrator's tent.

A white woman is sitting in a rickety chair in front of a wooden packing case that is almost as old as the war itself. Like almost everything in this camp, it's been repurposed from its original duties carrying medical supplies into serving as a makeshift desk. The woman's short, dark hair is dusted with the red sand that gets everywhere. She's filling in a form, one ear dipped to hear the words of the local Zande-speaking woman who is translating for the young refugee standing in front of the desk.

Without looking up from the clipboard, she greets Gabi. "Well, look at you, the prodigal daughter returns, back from your holiday in Yei. What's the news?" Her French-accented English is so stereotypical that it almost always makes the American want to smile. If she tried to add it to her own repertoire of accents, she'd be laughed at as sounding more Hollywood than Parisian.

With an exaggerated sigh of exhaustion, Gabi drops into the folding chair behind the desk and pushes her own brown shoulder length hair away from her face. Water is scarce; showers an unbelievable luxury. She takes a cautious breath, testing to see if the air is marginally cleaner in the tent. When she's filled her lungs, she mutters, "As if news could be anything but bad."

Her trip to the regional capital of the Yei River province of South Sudan had been a long and dangerous journey through areas of the country where no one could claim to be in control. Ambushes were common; she'd been in a Kevlar flack-jacket, surrounded by armed men, with a UN cruiser both in front and behind hers. She'd volunteered to go to get the latest info from the MSF unit there. For interesting political reasons, the MSF organisation in Kinshasa were not interested in the work of their colleagues who had come south with the South Sudanese refugees. " _Not our problem; we have enough of our own here_ " is the usual response. Gabi had been sent back across the border to find out when the next supply convoy would be hazarding the journey and to demand a faster schedule.

"Not yet is the answer." Gabi shrugs philosophically. "The view from Juba is that the Azande refugees are better off here than in the warzone, but if you ask me, it's because they're Nuers who don't want the hassle of feeding these people."

The French woman is shaking her head in disbelief. "We have less than a month's supply of antibiotics left."

Gabi laughs. "That doesn't matter to them. The only government less able to guarantee safe passage of a humanitarian convoy than the DRC is the South Sudanese."

"Maybe not. There’s always Yemen."

The French woman had spent time in that hellhole before being reassigned here, and Gabi is grateful that she's not been assigned there. Her nursing skills are not on the same level as those of clinic management, so were less in demand. That had given her more flexibility in choosing assignments. _The more obscure and out of the way, the better_ had been her motto.

Even so, Gabi knew it was time to consider moving on. Her trip of Yei had been convenient for personal reasons, because there were things she needed to collect there—stuff that had been brought out to the place by one of the UNMISS peacekeeper officers. The man was amenable and she'd bribed him to collect a package for her when he was on a brief leave in Helsinki. "You might have a point, Nix. The gossip is that the peace negotiations might well bear fruit, and there's talk that the refugees will be repatriated. That's not even on the horizon for Yemen."

The French woman drops her clipboard on the top of the makeshift desk with a theatrical slap. "We’ve heard that before; it just means Juba's elites are hungry and want the peasants back to plant crops. No one sitting in an office's air-conditioned splendour has any idea what the people are actually suffering. The place is a fucking war zone."

Gabi unzips the duffel bag at her feet and tosses a carton of Gauloises cigarettes on the table.

" _Magnifique!"_ Within seconds, the rank odour of a refugee camp is masked by the harsh aroma of tobacco.

Gabi draws in a breath and asks, "And what about here, Nix? How's tricks?"

The French woman snorts. "You sound _so_ American when you do that."

The smirk is immediate, as is the reply, "Well, what do you expect?"

"You're a long way from San Diego, Gabrielle Ashdown." Nix doesn't look up from the form on the clipboard.

"And you're a long way from the Left Bank of Paris, Nicolle Blanchard," replies Gabi.

In chorus, they both say to one another, "Then what the fuck are we doing in this African arse hole?" and start laughing.

If they didn't indulge in occasional humour, the two women would probably have left long ago. The conditions are dire, the plight of the refugees heart-breaking, and there is no end in sight to the conflict that sent these people from one war zone into another.

Nix knocks the first bit of ash from the cigarette, plants it in the corner of her mouth as she completes the form. Once she's signed it, she tears off a perforated strip of plasticised paper at the bottom of the form and gestures to the translator to get the refugee to hold out her hand. When an emaciated hand emerges from the swathed fabric, Nix wraps the band around the too thin wrist and pulls the flap to expose the sticky tape, then seals the two edges. In a well-rehearsed request, the translator explains how the wrist band will be scanned with a phone app each time she is given medical help.

Nix waits until the translator to finish before reminding her, "Tell her that if she tries to take it off or tampers with the seal, she'll lose it and all her rights to treatment."

Gabi wonders how long the phones will keep their charges; the sand storm makes solar rechargers temperamental. MSF has been forced to resort to this sort of tagging because the black market for scarce medicines leads desperately ill patients to sell their medicines in exchange for money to buy food for their families. She leans forward to take the cigarette from Nicolle's mouth long enough to take a puff of her own from it.

As she exhales and feels the nicotine rush to her head, the tent flap opens and in strides a dark West African man in a khaki uniform with a bright blue beret. Seko Kouassi is an impressively tall, well-fed, well-muscled and well full of himself man, in Gabi's view.

"Salutations, _mesdames_."

She's never liked Seko, one of the MONUSCO peacekeepers from Côte d'Ivoire, liaising between the UN Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the UNMISS peacekeeping force in South Sudan.

As both women are employed by MSF, they have an ambivalent attitude towards the UN peacekeepers in both countries. The presence of the troops has not stopped the wars that have caused the massive migrations across borders of peoples desperate to find some safety. The toll on civilians has been appalling over the past fifteen years, and there is no sign of a let-up. The mineral riches of the eastern DRC clash with the needs of the South Sudanese refugees, and more than once Gabi has come to realise that the MONUSCO forces may well be dipping their own beaks into the trough of mineral riches. A blue beret does not make one immune to the bribery and corruption that is rife in this area. And this man has been known to abuse his position, indulging his sexual needs with the refugee women who are in an impossible position, unable to refuse.

Gabi stifles her natural urge to push back against the man's arrogance with sass; no need to draw attention to herself. It's more important to keep every official uninterested in her; what they don't know about her won't hurt her. This is a vital part of her modus operandi, and the reason why the new passport under a new name is being kept safely tucked away.

The next Azande woman waiting in the queue has turned her face away from the man, almost cringing. Gabi can tell that her need to register fights with her instinct to escape from a man in a uniform. She is likely one of the many rape victims who show up at the clinic looking for some treatment for a wide variety of STDs or vaginal damage. The sense of disquiet in a man’s presence seems to infect the rest of the women waiting in the queue. There are murmurs of conversation and the shifting of bare feet in the sand on the tent floor.

"What can we do for you, Lieutenant?" As Gabi asks the question, she stands up; the habits of half a lifetime as a mercenary make it hard to mask her physical reactions to the sort of threat that the UN man carries in his stance.

"You can stop registering these women. We'll be trucking them all back to Yei in the morning."

At the desk, the French woman is outraged. "What?! Why?"

"Because this camp is being closed. Your organisation in Kinshasa has been informed and agreed. The people here are being moved back across the border—all of them."

"That's not possible!" Nix is now on her feet, too, bristling with indignation. "There are thousands of patients here whom we are treating, many patients too sick to move. If they are sent back into a war zone, you are sentencing them to death."

"Not my problem. I just carry the message. Someone in the Juba government has done a deal with the President in Kinshasa. South Sudan's refugees are no longer welcome here."

"You can't just close the camp and kick people out!"

The Malawian's face breaks into a toothy grin. "Yes, we can. It's all agreed. The local people don't want these Azande here, and we have a job to do to keep the peace in the DRC. The UNHRC corps that runs this camp is already starting to take the infrastructure down."

Nix gets up from the desk and leans across it, glaring at the officer. "MSF does not work for the UN."

The Ivorian laughs. "No, you don't. If you did, you might have been consulted. The Congolese think you are part of the problem; the medical support you provide is a magnet for refugees who are not wanted here."

He glances down at the packing case and then grabs the clipboard, scanning the new intake. "Be ready to leave tomorrow morning at dawn. Start dismantling things and packing up your supplies. We'll take a record of everyone who leaves here, fingerprinting everyone—aid workers, too. If anyone is caught crossing back into this country, the prints will be checked and those people will be repatriated."

Gabi controls her reactions; as a seasoned professional with several years' experience in the mess that is central Africa, she knows that protesting now would mean that the MONUSCO officer would be likely to put them on the first truck back across the border. That is definitely _not_ where she should be going, especially if the transit is going to involve fingerprinting.

The local translator has listened to their conversation and starts talking to the queue of women. There is a burst of alarmed conversation. Then, the women start fleeing the tent in a panic.

oOoOoOoOo

After an exhausting afternoon spent packing things up, Gabi finally has a chance to retreat to her tent. Sleepless, she lies back on her camp bed and contemplates the canvas over her head as if it had all the answers to all the questions that are keeping her awake. For almost an hour, she alternates between a sense of panic about what is coming in the morning and borderline depression about how powerless she feels. The choices go around and round in her head, and she can't break free from the cycle of bad—worse—worst scenarios; no matter what she tries to conjure up as a solution, each one breaks down in a matter of minutes under operative scrutiny.

In utter frustration, she lets the tears escape. It had been her father who had taught her that when emotions threaten to overwhelm logic, it is better to have a good cry and then get back to analytical thinking. The emotional release is oddly comforting.

In the camp bed next to her, Marie turns over and asks quietly, "You okay?"

Gabi whispers back, "Not really. I feel for these women, being forced to return to such a nightmare." It's not true—well, not entirely anyway. What is really upsetting her is that she can't see a way out for herself.

" _Mon ami_ , this is their life. We can only go with them to do what we can to help."

Her colleague's unselfish concern makes Gabi realise that she can no longer play the part. "I'm not going. I'm done with South Sudan."

"Oh!" Marie doesn't mask her surprise. "Why?"

"I've reached the end of the road. Compassion fatigue, I guess."

"Perhaps you should sleep on it; we'll talk in the morning."

This has been Marie's answer to any wobble amidst the MSF nurses, and usually she's right. A lot of the doctors and other staff had these dark nights of the soul but came to their senses in the morning when the need to help overcame the exhaustion.

Morning won’t change anything for Gabi; she knows she won't change her mind. As Marie's breathing slows and takes her tent companion into restorative sleep, Gabi reminds herself that she is a professional, used to making decisions based on what limited information is available to her. Right now, she knows that her choices are very limited indeed. For the past three years, she's had over a dozen different identities and made random choices about her journeys, using tradecraft to bury her trail and make it nigh on impossible to follow her.

Her gut is telling her now that what is impossible for most people won't be for a certain person: _Hawking Man._ AKA Axel and Fyodr. When they'd parted ways, the IOU she owed him was an unnamed threat, a promissory note. She'd had no choice back then except to sign the blank cheque or end up in a shallow grave in a Russian forest. Hostage to the planning of the man who had engineered the betrayal of AGRA, she could do nothing but go along, hoping that an opportunity to cut and run would present itself. She doesn't believe in mind-readers, yet every possible option she'd considered on their way from Georgia to Moscow had been blocked by a man who seemed always to be two steps ahead of her. By the end of their time together, she was admitting something that she'd never felt before—she'd been out-gunned, out-manoeuvred and outwitted. It had terrified her in a way she had never experienced before. Whatever payment he would demand from her was going to be lethal not just to a target of his wrath but to her as well; getting something done in a way that would eliminate her as a loose end is likely a package deal too irresistible to miss. Knowing that, she'd run for her life. As far and as fast as she could, burying herself in a plethora of different disguises, never staying anywhere for long, never making contact with anyone who might have links to any intelligence service anywhere. She'd headed straight for civil wars, floods, famines, earthquakes, epidemics—the worst of the worst, places where anyone willing to help was put to work with very few questions asked. The trail should be impossible to follow, and the South Sudanese camp in the Democratic Republic of the Congo is about rock bottom.

Yet now, even that is being taken away from her.

If she tries to go south, she'll end up in a shooting war and at risk of being put to work on Ebola cases that could kill her as well. If she goes north, she will be fingerprinted and all of her travels will come to nothing. Somehow, she knows that such incontrovertible evidence of her presence would mean her nemesis will be able to find her. Passports can be forged; the biomedical data on some countries' documentation raises the price, but money is something she's been able to stash away over the years, as a freelancer. Few countries have the technology to scan retinas on entry, and those that do can be avoided by using passports without that data. The one thing that can't be faked is a fingerprint, and that fact makes crossing back into South Sudan tomorrow something that she is not prepared to do. No matter how far she has travelled or how many miles she has put between her and Axel, the risks of being fingerprinted are too great.

Yet, after three years and countless reincarnations in places that most people had never heard of, the woman with too many names, none of which are her own, is tired of running. The name on a birth certificate had been Růžena Marie, but no one other than her parents has ever called her that and they are long dead. The places she's been, the horrors of human depravity to which she's been exposed, have all taken a toll.

She's _tired._ Is this really living? Could it really be any worse than what Hawking Man had planned for her? She's done. Finished. Broken. Fed up with running, too tired to continue this farce. If this is what life is going to be like, her only purpose in life being trying to avoid Hawking Man, then she questions whether it is really worth it.

Is it too much to ask to find a way to disappear into a _normal_ life? Her biological clock is ticking. If she ever wants to have a child, it's going to be soon or never. She's never thought it would be possible—not with her chosen profession and her current circumstances. What she wouldn't give for just one chance, a shot at a real, ordinary, normal life. _Find a normal man to love, build a relationship, get married, have a child_. Is that beyond her reach? Staring at the seams of the tent above her head—the one that leaks because it had never been properly sealed—she knows the answer. She's spent too much time in places where normal people don't go, dealing with problems so far beyond people’s usual experience sphere that they would terrify anyone who isn't an adrenaline junkie or somehow damaged in another way.

Maybe it's time to come in from the wild and ferocious places and try instead to hide in plain sight. The passport that she's got hidden in her pants is that of a Finnish national, a nurse named Marjaana Järvinen. Tomorrow, she will go to the UNHCR operatives running this camp and hitch a lift to their field office across the border in Uganda. Once there, she will use her new passport to get into the EU and then go to England. Maybe her contact there will have worked out the identity of the betrayer of the AGRA operation by now. For all she knows, Hawking Man could have been identified and neutralised while she's been away. She wants nothing more than a quiet life and a chance to be normal and she’ll regret it forever if she doesn’t at least give it a try.

Decision made, she breathes a sigh of relief and finally allows sleep to take her.


	5. Calling in a Debt

It's a long way from Kampala to Kensington. Gabi — who had become Marjaana Järvinen the moment she crossed the border into Uganda — is feeling the chill of an English springtime that can't make up its mind whether to push yet more leaves out on the trees or hunker down against a blast of wind that feels like it's come all the way from the Urals. When she'd left Kampala, it had been a balmy 28 degrees Celsius; here, it veers between thirteen and twenty-two. One minute it's pouring with rain, the next the sun comes out and everything warms up. No wonder the English have this obsession about the weather; they seem to have more of it than most places.

There is one advantage of her relocation: she is able to move about in London without anyone noticing her. No longer the pale skinned female in an area where that is as unusual as a polar bear on the savannahs of Kenya, she blends in effortlessly now. Her short brown wavy hair suits her, making her look younger than she has in years.

It helps her mission. The open spaces around Holland Park give her plenty of opportunity to size up the challenge facing her without attracting attention. It isn't everyday work, breaking into the home of peers of the realm, Lady Elizabeth and her husband, Lord Charles Smallwood, particularly when the former warrants a close protection officer from the Metropolitan Police. The presence of a teenage daughter, The Honorable Alicia Smallwood, could have added an unnecessary complication but thankfully, she is away, a pupil at a boarding school in Kent.

Marjaana is taking her time getting to know the family’s London house on Addison Road. During the first day, she was a nanny pushing a pram down one side of the street and then back up the other. She had been amused to find that she wasn't the only nanny doing this; the area is well enough off that such an old-fashioned sight is not unusual. Number 76, the home of the Smallwoods, is one of eleven Georgian houses on the west side of the street which is a line-up of all double-fronted detached homes, most of which have had extensions and garages built on without ruining the architecture's intrinsic sense of proportion and scale. There is money here, but it is held in check by a sense of refined society. It's a bit like the English upper-class, the Finn decides: understated appreciation of cool lines and classical taste. The occupants must have been horrified when the nouveau riche shopkeepers of one of England's most famous department stores had built Peacock House across the street: it’s a nineteenth century extravaganza complete with turreted towers, a dome and flash enamel tiling on the outside walls.

The second and third days of observation are easier. By then, she'd sussed out the fact that no fewer than four of the eleven houses are undergoing some form of construction or refurbishment. Today her disguise comes in the form of a hi-viz safety jacket, a hard hat, coveralls with a construction company logo, and a tripod with a Steinberg System automatic level which gives her the chance to perform all the measurements she needs: distances, angles, heights of walls, fences, and surveillance equipment. She blows off the only person curious enough to question her presence—a construction site manager three doors down from the Smallwood's residence—by telling him she's been hired by the local council to make sure that all the construction of the houses is not causing subsidence of the road and pavements. He leaves her alone after that.

As the Chair of the Parliamentary Intelligence Oversight Committee, Lady Smallwood has had her home kitted out by MI5. Marjaana breathes a sigh of relief as soon as she spots the obvious signs. She knows the equipment well enough; she may have been a freelancer, but the equipment used on any operation for the British had to meet their standards. The only more recent innovation she's been able to spot is the inclusion of four swivelling cameras in the birdboxes that have been put in the two trees screening the front of the house. The tripod gives her an opportunity to swap out the auto-level and replace it with a thermal imaging camera.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Once back in a dingy bedsit less than a mile away, she has time to view the footage and sketch a rough floorplan and an outline the movement of various people in the house. The camera she has now installed in the fence of Peacock House gives her a clear view of car traffic in and out of the house, and she is relieved to see that the cleaners and cook are not live-in, nor does the Met's close protection officer stay at the house after he sees her in.

She is also grateful that the House of Lords appears to be taking a great deal of Lord Smallwood's time; a quick check of Hansard online shows he is leading the opposition in a committee of the whole that is considering transport planning legislation. It means this week he is regularly eating dinner at the House of Lords and not returning to the residence until nearly midnight.

The fewer people home, the better. The conversation she needs to have with Lady Smallwood must not be overheard or interrupted. She makes a phone call to Lady Smallwood's parliamentary office.

"Are you her diary secretary?" She asks the question in a New Jersey accent that brings back memories of her Mary Saunders days. She'd taken pleasure in burning that particular passport, lest it mean that the man who gave it to her could find her again.

The woman in the Parliamentary Office is persuaded by Marjaana that she is a US State Department analyst who is transiting through London briefly, and who would love to have a chance to speak with Lady Smallwood on the advice of a mutual acquaintance, who happens to be high up in the National Security Agency. "Would it be possible to just have a few minutes on the phone with her tonight? I'm at Heathrow waiting for my flight, so is there a time I should call?"

When she ends the call, she knows where and when her target will be coming home to Holland Park; it is always surprising how gullible a PA can be when you know all the right buttons to push. It crosses her mind that Lady Smallwood would be rather easy to assassinate. That sort of thought comes to mind a lot less these days, now that she's no longer in the business of such work. Old habits die hard.

oOoOoOoOo

Entry is not difficult. Once the staff leave, the house will be empty for the next hour. Marjaana avoids the back garden and alleyway security lights by using the next-door neighbour's garden, accessed from Holland Villas Road which runs parallel to Addison Road. The houses on that street have the basic home alarm systems by the way of security precautions, so it's easy to use Number 74's garden to get close. Up onto their garage roof, she then tosses a small hook onto the eaves of Number 76 and then swings across behind and above the motion sensor that lights the path at the front of the Smallwood residence. Why don't people ever think of testing how secure someone's residence really is? Perhaps Lady Smallwood is one of those women who believe they’re invincible. _The arrogance of those with wealth and power_.

Her contacts on the inside of MI5 don't know about Marjaana‘s true identity, nor her past role with AGRA. To them, the Finn is just an occasionally useful source of intel and humint about what's going on in the Central African Republic, a sort of sideline to her work with the UNHCR. She, however, has worked those contacts to the limit, nicking passwords and using them to gain access to the systems at Thames House. As a result, she knows that Lady Smallwood is considered a moderate security risk, given her closeness to the current Prime Minster, and that her husband is even more so due to some youthful indiscretions.

Marjaana uses the cable to climb up to a second-floor sash window. It is wired as part of the house alarm system but it is a simple matter of running a by-pass cable to keep the connection secure while she opens it far enough to slip into a small room. Once inside what appears to be Lord Smallwood's study, she uses a handheld scanner to identify the presence of the internal security devices. That the scanner is not on MI5's procurement list, but rather on Mossad's, is a bonus; it is unlikely to leave any electronic signature of its own. It had been one of the tools of her trade left stashed with a private storage company south of Waterloo, one of a half dozen such caches hidden around the world. AGRA had always kept one eye peeled for the latest gadgets.

Avoiding the interior security hot spots, she makes her way to the conservatory kitchen, sitting herself down in the comfortable lounger chair and waiting in the dark. She's used a local jamming device to stymie the camera in the corner that the scanner had spotted. It makes her wonder if Lady Smallwood knows that she is being bugged by her the very intelligence service that she is supposed to be overseeing.

Thirty-seven minutes later, when she hears the electronic gates at the driveway being activated, she switches on her own phone and its app, using a frequency that isn't blocked by the jammer. She watches the camera feed from across the street as Lady Smallwood's chauffeur drives the Rolls into the driveway. She gets out of the car with the close protection officer who sees her up the steps to the front door. He opens the door, but doesn't bother to come in. Marjaana doesn't need to see him in order to know that he will have given the front house alarm panel a quick check and then assumed that the place was secure. As he says goodnight, Marjaana is grateful that most officers are rather predictably unimaginative.

The chauffeur is equally discreet once Lady Smallwood is in the house. The camera shows him parking the roller in the garage. From her previous surveillance she knows that he will go from the garage downstairs to the lower ground floor flat where he lives. She can rely on the English class system keeping the staff away from their masters. The fact that the chauffeur is on the payroll of MI5 is something that Marjaana is confident that Lady Smallwood does not know, nor the extent of the internal cameras designed to keep an eye on the couple. For once, that works in her favour: the man won't be able to replace the jammed camera until his mistress is safely out of the house, so Marjaana knows that she will get the privacy she needs for this conversation.

She waits as the lights go on down the hall, and she hears the clatter of keys being dropped on the console table. Marjaana imagines Lady Smallwood glancing in the mirror over it, and perhaps noticing how tired she is. The woman has had a busy day, if her secretary is to be believed. The tap of court heels gives a soundtrack to her progress down the polished wooden floor to the back of the house. The new extension had added a very modern kitchen with a garden room. As the lights are switched on, Lady Smallwood walks straight to the refrigerator, opening it and taking out a bottle of white wine. She thumbs the Vacuvin top off with one hand while opening the cupboard above to take out a Riedel glass. Marjaana watches as the glass is filled to the halfway mark and then, after a momentary hesitation, to the three-quarters full level. She puts the bottle back in the fridge and then comes around the kitchen island, heading for the chair in which Marjaana is sitting.

The tall blonde manages two steps in that direction before stuttering to a halt. "Who the hell are you?"

Marjaana raises her hands away from her black-clad body and says, "The answer to that depends on you, Lady Smallwood."

"How did you get in here? Get out of my house, or I will call the police." She backs up the two steps and puts the wine glass down without shifting her eyes off the intruder.

"No need for that," Marjaana says, waving her hands to show they are empty. "No weapon; I'm not here to hurt you, just need to talk. If you have a problem with that, just shout to the chauffeur. You do you know he works for MI5? Don't bother to wave in the direction of that corner, to the left. That's where I found his camera, which I’ve deactivated."

"What are you talking about? What camera?" Lady Smallwood looks over into the corner of the room.

 _"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ I'm not kidding; you are being observed by the very people you are supposed to be monitoring."

"Answer my question _now_ , or the next thing I do is call the police."

"You can try. I've put a signal jammer in this room so we could have a talk in private; it works on most phone and wi-fi signals, too. To answer your question, you knew me as Rosemary, the R in AGRA. And you are Ammo*, the person who authorised that operation."

"That operation failed and all involved were killed."

Marjaana giggles and waves. "Surprise! I survived."

"We've never set eyes on each other before. How do I know you are telling the truth?"

"How many people do you know who would have the skill-set to get into this house despite your house alarm system and the MI5 surveillance to organise this little tête-à-tête? Oh, and who also knows that it was you who authorised the operation in the first place? Sort of narrows the field, doesn’t it?"

"It was three and a half years ago. What's taken you so long?"

Pleased that Smallwood is being quick off the mark, Marjaana answers, "Given that it was someone in the UK intelligence services who betrayed the operation, I've been careful to cover my tracks."

After the initial shock of seeing an intruder, Lady Smallwood is clearly becoming less and less fazed by the idea of a stranger getting into her house and talking about secret matters. Marjaana watches her make a decision.

The English woman picks up her glass of wine again, and walks closer. "Get out of my chair, and sit over there," she commands, gesturing to a wicker bench. "It's been a hellish day at the office and I have no desire to make it worse."

Marjaana obliges her and is amused that, as soon as she sinks back into the lounger, Lady Smallwood kicks off her shoes, unpins her upswept long hair which falls across her shoulders and puts her feet up. She then takes a long sip from the wine. When that is swallowed and savoured for a moment, she commands, "You've gone to a lot of trouble to get in here. So, now that you're here, talk."

"It's taken me three years because I tried to put a lot of distance between me and what happened in Tbilisi. I got out alive, but the rest of my team didn't, thanks to someone at your end betraying us to the wrong people. I thought you might like to know that."

"How do you know it wasn't me?"

Marjaana smiles. "I've done my research. There is no motive that would make sense for you to do it. That said, someone in your circle did."

"If so, and you've tried to disappear, why are you taking the risk of talking to me now? And why _now_ , of all times, cluttering up my conservatory at this hour of night?"

"Because I'm tired of running. I want out of the business. The person you knew as Rosemary is dead, and I intend to keep it that way. I want a new identity, new documentation and a nice, quiet life here in England. You're going to provide me with it, without telling anyone that I was that person you once employed."

The woman sitting across from her takes another sip from the wine. Marjaana has to hand it to her; she's a very cool operator.

"Tell me why I would go to the trouble of doing that? You don't work for us now, didn't work for us back then, either; that's the whole point of a freelancer—total deniability and no pension."

Marjaana tilts her head, looking at the woman with a slightly perplexed expression. "Where would you like me to start? Should I point out that it is in your best interests not to have the failure of that operation dragged out in public? I wouldn't have to do anything damaging to my own anonymity. The mere rumour that someone in your office is a mole who’s selling operational secrets to third parties who are interested in thwarting British interests would be enough to damage you. That, and an explanation of what went belly-up when a British Ambassador was murdered in an abortive attempt to rescue her, are just the sort of information to be circulated in certain quarters of the intelligence community. I'm sure I don't have to paint the full picture of how that could be a career-limiting move."

That slightly snide dig earns her an icy smile. "Is that a threat or an attempt at blackmail?"

"Nothing so blatant. It's the truth. As is this—I would much rather negotiate a solution to both our problems than resort to anything that endangers either of us."

Before she can continue, Lady Smallwood raises a patrician eyebrow. "I'm not the one with the problem. Just how did you escape the betrayal? Your survival casts doubt on your innocence."

"I never said I was _innocent_ ; my work for you and other governments made sure of that. I survived the initial firefight and then made a pact with a devil to get out of Georgia before the locals could capture me. That devil extracted a service from me in exchange for safe passage from Tbilisi to Moscow. That this person was also in on the betrayal of my team is something I've come to realise is a problem—for you as well as me."

Lady Smallwood puts her glass down on the side table and her feet back on the floor. She sits up, a sharp, almost predatory look in her eyes. "Tell me about this devil."

Marjaana purses her lips. "He's not British, not American, and I am sure he isn't Russian or Georgian either. He’s not… _anything_ specific. He doesn't talk; he's had a complete laryngectomy."

Lady Smallwood's eyes widen at that revelation. "You… had _contact_ with this person?"

Marjaana nods. She decides to say very little more about this man because clearly, he is a person of interest to the woman. That might prove useful at a later date, so she decides to bank it.

"From a distance, surely?" Lady Smallwood continues, her incredulity evident.

Interesting, that comment. It suggests to Marjaana that one of the reasons Hawking Man had used her to help him disappear is that people like Lady Smallwood know who he is, and that creates problems for him. She decides to obfuscate—tell some truths, just not _all_ of the truth, and deflect attention. "Yeah, he used some sort of voice synthesiser during our Skype audio conversation."

"And he said he was responsible for the failure of the operation?"

Marjaana nods.

"What service did he require from you in exchange for your escape?"

"I carried a package for him over the border into Russia."

"What was it?" There is real urgency in her question.

Marjaana shrugs and decides to lie. "Don't know. It was sealed. And it was taken out of my care a day after we crossed the border."

"By whom?"

"A hospital ambulance driver." She has to be careful here. Even though it was three years ago, it is possible that Lady Smallwood's contacts in the intelligence community could make enquiries.

Her suspicions are confirmed when the woman asks, "Where, _exactly_?"

"Nalchik, in the Kabardino-Balkaria Republic in the Russian Federation."

"Shape of the package? Size? Weight?"

"Does it matter?"

"It could."

Marjaana extends the lie. "A sealed metal cannister, similar to a thermos flask, disguised in my pack; I was on an organised trekking expedition from Ushba to Elbrus. The container had been welded shut."

Lady Smallwood digests the description. "No idea about the contents? Liquid or solid?"

"It was no heavier than you would expect from a thermos. It could have been completely full of liquid—though I heard no sloshing—or a gas, for all I could tell."

The blonde nods, almost to herself, and Marjaana files that away, too. So, British intelligence is worried about something that shape and size, likely a liquid rather than gas. She will need to ponder that and how it might link to Hawking Man. "So, we're negotiating. I've just given you something valuable; what can you do for me?"

"We're not in the business of providing safe havens for freelancers. One could easily become an embarrassment rather than an asset."

"I want to be _neither._ I want an ID and documentation of a British national; then, I will disappear into normality. If you need me to deal with something that might come to light later about the voiceless man, then you'll know where to find me."

"Sounds tame for someone with your job experience."

"Tame is good. In fact, it's ideal. I'm ready to be normal. Settle down, find a man, raise a family. You have a daughter of your own; you know the pull." She looks around the kitchen. "My needs are more modest than yours. I don't aspire to this standard of living, and don't need to appear on anyone's budget. In fact, it's a pre-condition. No one apart from you must know."

Lady Smallwood leans back in the lounger and lifts her feet back onto it. "Funny, you're the second person who's said that to me today."

"Should I care who the first one was?"

"Not really, but this may be a rather useful coincidence. I need someone who is totally off the books, not known by anyone in any capacity in the intelligence world, to do me a favour."

"I just told you, I'm no longer in the business."

"And what if I told you that is exactly what I need? I want a normal person to get close to a civilian, keep an eye on him."

"Should I care who the first one was?"

"Not really, but this may be a rather useful co-incidence. I need someone who is totally off the books, not known by anyone in any capacity in the intelligence world, to do me a favour."

"I just told you, I'm no longer in the business."

Lady Smallwood laughs. "Not at all. He's an innocent without any ties to British or foreign intelligence. An ordinary English GP working at a surgery in south London."

"Why does an ordinary person warrant scrutiny?"

"He doesn't. However, he does need protection. You'd be more like a guardian angel. You can do that sort of thing, can't you? Not exactly demanding of someone with your skills. Get close, keep an eye on him. Make sure nothing nasty happens to him."

"Why would something nasty happen to an ordinary GP?"

She smiles and has another sip of the wine. When she's done, she answers, "I doubt anything of the kind will happen, no. But I was asked by someone who is doing me a favour to make sure that this GP gets on with his ordinary life by getting someone who is not part of the intelligence services to keep an eye on him."

“That’s a more complicated chain of favours than I’d like. I told you; I want out of the game, not get tangled up in it more than I already am.”

“I assure you that this is a favour to a friend rather than a proper covert operation. And you will be totally outside any intelligence service, just as you want. No one but me will know.”

"Even so…" She can’t help her scepticism, but maybe, just maybe this will work. "It sounds like serendipity."

"It does, doesn't it? Call me Elizabeth. If we are going to be in this little cabal of ours, it makes sense not to stand on ceremony."

Marjaana smiles. "Call me by whatever name you want, so long as the documentation is legal."

"It's a deal." Elizabeth gets up and goes to the fridge. "My husband won't be home for another hour. I'm assuming you'll join me in a glass? It's a rather unassuming Chablis."

"Love to; just the one, though. My exit from your second-floor window needs a clear head."

They raise a glass to one another in a wordless salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a general misunderstanding that Vivian Norbury was "Ammo" (even the bakerstreetwiki has it wrong). In fact, "Amo" is the Latin word for "Love" which is Lady Smallwood's code name and on the basis of that, Mycroft suspects her of being the traitor, once Sherlock tells him that the traitor used the code word which people misheard as "ammo". Sherlock meets Norbury at the Aquarium, where she confesses to being the one who sold state secrets that the British Ambassador to Georgia had uncovered, so she was the one who authorised the change of plan. She is the person who Mary referred to as "Just another voice on the phone, and a code word, Ammo [….] like ammunition.” It was Norbury giving Amo's approval of the "last minute adjustment" in the AGRA rescue attempt that therefore ended in the death of the ambassador.


	6. Opportunity Knocks

**_—Thirteen months later—_ **

Mary takes a deep breath, psyching herself up for the Best Man's speech. There is no way in hell that John would have had anyone else do this, and she's very aware that this is the only element of the entire wedding that Sherlock has not rehearsed in front of her. So, come what may, she's going to sit and listen attentively, hoping for John's sake that it isn’t a total disaster.

She takes another tentative sip of the wine and tries not to grimace at the shudder of revulsion that runs through her. Despite all her planning, a general sense of nausea has meant that her plate of food had been cleared away, half uneaten. It surprises her; she's faced dangers far greater this, and felt less on edge. Is this because marriage means she is crossing some mental Rubicon now, between her former life and her new normality?

Sherlock shifts his weight uncomfortably, clearly aware of the fact that all eyes are on him. He stutters his way through the first three telegrams.

He pulls the next note card up and reads from it, "Mary, lots of love…" Suddenly, he dries on the next word, breathing out an almost silent ' _Oh'_.

Startled, she looks up at him, and John interjects a quiet "Yeah?" in encouragement.

" _Poppet_." Sherlock pronounces the word disparagingly, giving the last letter at the end an extra loud T. He frowns as both she and John giggle, for a reason that is quite clearly beyond his comprehension. Over the months, Mary has come to terms with what a remarkable person Holmes is, and how his willingness to plan the wedding and do this speech is testament to how much he cares about John. This whole endeavour has shoved the man so far out of his comfort zone that he must be looking forward to the honeymoon with almost as much relief as she is.

She's still smiling at that thought while Sherlock carries on reading. " _Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this._ "

That comment cuts through her like a knife, and she knows that her mask must have slipped because John senses her disquiet.

He looks away from Sherlock and back at her. With a quiet "Hey, hmm?" John takes her hand. He must think that the reference to her dead parents must have distressed her.

She gives him a reassuring smile and settles back to listen to Sherlock's hasty canter through the rest of the messages, focussing on the words _'special day'_ and _'love_ ' before concluding, "A bit of a theme—you get the general gist. People are basically _fond."_

While Sherlock recounts the tale of how John had asked him to be his best man, Mary's smile is back in place but her mind is elsewhere, trying to understand why Charles Augustus Magnussen of all people would send her such a message— wildly inappropriate from someone she's never even met. Mary's knowledge of the man is based only on what she knows from Janine, her maid of honour. That Sherlock would pronounce the man's initials as if it were a name doesn't matter; Mary wishes that Janine was sitting close enough that she could try to gauge her reaction.

Their friendship had been forged about five months before Sherlock had returned from the dead. Janine had become a member at the gym that Mary attended. The previous nine months of fairly sedentary work at the surgery had taken its toll on her figure so she'd taken up the membership to regain something of the strength that she'd cultivated for her previous career. That's what she's decided to call it, as if rationalising it as just another line on a CV. Irrelevant to the life of Mary Morstan, nurse, dedicated aid worker and all-round nice person. Still, no need to go to pot completely.

She'd liked the Hawkins girl from the start; something sparky about her personality drew her attention, especially when she'd come to realise that it was covering up something darker in her past. Mary's intelligence skills were piqued, and she couldn't resist probing to find out what it was. Eventually, Janine had broken down in tears over a coffee, saying that she was having problems at work. It had taken some time to tease out a fractured tale of how her boss manipulated her into doing things she didn't want to do; "CAM knows too damned much about too many people; a total bully." When Mary had told her to quit if it was so awful, Janine had just laughed incredulously. "Can't. He won't let me go. He'd got me right where he wants me. There's no way out."

How could a man like Charles Augustus Magnussen, whom she's never met, know anything about Mary Morstan's made-up past? Why would he make up a message to ram home that exact point about her being an orphan? Why make the point at her wedding, of all places? Is it possible that he's somehow discovered who she really is? Could Elizabeth Smallwood have betrayed her? Her palms start sweating, and she has to shove a fresh wave of nausea down before it makes her bolt from the room in a panic.

Mary needs all her skills to keep in the role of the happy bride, whilst thinking through these questions with the mind of the intelligence operative that she once was. And what her mind is telling her as Sherlock continues with his speech is not good news.

It's not long after this that the whole wedding reception goes to hell in a handbasket. Given the subsequent drama of someone trying to murder Major James Sholto, Mary's worries about her past get shoved to the back of her mind.

oOoOoOoOoOo

**_—Four Weeks Later—_ **

"Don't. Oh God, please don't." Mary whispers this, trying desperately to keep her breakfast in her stomach when a patient flees the waiting room and charges into the toilet. It's not very well sound-proofed and the resultant noises of vomiting reach the reception desk where she is sitting. Triggered by the sound, Mary loses the battle and gets to her feet, saying to the receptionist. "Sorry, Cas. Got to run."

The staff loo is down the hall and around the corner. By the time Mary gets there, the need to vomit is overwhelming. She grabs the door handle only to find it locked. Sticking her hand over her mouth, she darts to the store room next door next to it, snags a plastic bin and vomits there in full technicolour glory. It's not the first time that both the patient and staff loos have been in use, so she's prepared a number of lined bins at different places in the surgery.

The staff loo door opens and she hears a familiar voice say, "Sorry!"

John comes straight into the store room and pats her on the back. "Bad?" he asks.

She retches again. "Oh God; how long is this going to last?"

Ruefully, her husband answers, "Well, we both know that despite the name, it doesn't happen just in the mornings and it’s not likely to disappear until sixteen to twenty weeks."

"I won't live that long."

"Yes, you will. You're about nine weeks now; this is supposed to be the worst."

She sighs. They've been back from Morocco for just over a week, during which the sickness has dogged her every waking moment and half the nights, too.

"At least we had the honeymoon before it arrived," she manages, standing up again and trying to catch her breath.

He nods, handing her a paper towel. "Maybe you could try ginger tea. I've heard it helps. Want me to pop out at lunch to get some?"

All she can manage is a nod before she has to lean over the bin again.

oOoOoOoOo

**_—A Week Later—_ **

Mary's agreed to John helping Sherlock tonight while she puts in an extra hour at the surgery to make up for the fact that morning sickness is making her come in late occasionally. John’s excuse had been that they’d be planning some case or other but it may be that he just wants to spend time with Sherlock. She really doesn't mind; she knows she's been pretty lousy company for the past two weeks. Her short temper had been in evidence this morning when John had marched off to rescue Isaac and then found Sherlock at the doss house. She'd watched their little scene at the lab when Molly did the drug test and that strange young man had "deduced" the fact that John had taken to cycling to work. It might have been amusing, except for the fact that John was livid about Sherlock using drugs _again_ , something she had not known about him before today. In all the months before Sherlock's return, John had talked non-stop about how wonderful Sherlock had been. Never once had he mentioned he was a drug addict even though he’d disclosed many other personal things about the man. The fact of the drugs is unsettling, and she is unsure whether to believe Sherlock when he'd shouted at John that it was for a case. Perhaps when John gets back tonight, she will get him to open up a bit more about what is going on.

It's a ten-minute walk from the surgery to the underground. Mary's nearly at the Tube station when a black Bentley comes up from behind her and pulls into a no parking space just in front of her. The rear passenger door opens onto the pavement and a disembodied voice—one she recognises all too well—commands, "Get in."

_As if I haven't had a bad enough day, now the devil himself arrives to make it worse._

For the past seven weeks, Mary has done everything she can to stay as far away from Mycroft Holmes as possible. The man makes her nervous. The text message she had sent him after the formal invitations had been posted was blunt and to the point: **Your regrets would be gratefully received.** She'd been relieved when Mycroft had not appeared, even though his presence might have been comforting to the Best Man. The last thing she'd needed at her wedding was a reminder that the woman who had placed her at the surgery Lady Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes knew too much about the past she was trying to put behind her for good. Given what had happened at the wedding, there were already more than enough spectres at the feast.

Sighing, she climbs in the back seat and eyes the elder Holmes with suspicion. "As much as I appreciate the offer of a free ride home in comfort, it's only fair to warn you that I am suffering from morning sickness and might throw up all over your lovely leather upholstery."

Mycroft eyes widen in alarm. He opens a compartment in the back of the seat and privacy screen separating the passengers from the driver, and reaches past a cut-glass whisky decanter to pull out from the space what appears to be an ice bucket. "Tip the ice out before you shut the door."

After doing just that, she fastens her seatbelt and holds the bucket in her lap. "Right. Good to go."

"Mrs Watson. Congratulations on your impending motherhood."

"You could have sent a card, or phoned. No need to offer me a lift; pregnancy is not a disability."

He gives her one of those pseudo-smiles that never reach the eyes. "I wanted to have this discussion in private. Neither your husband nor my brother should learn of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Secrets are something that you and I are both capable of keeping, despite annoying family members. A face-to-face is not obligatory."

He takes that comment as an invitation to continue. "It has come to my attention that you may of some assistance in a matter of mutual concern."

She raises an eyebrow. "You have people — _minions_ , as your brother would call them. Why would I be of any help to you?"

"There are rules about the misuse of public services for private purposes. Your… _skills_ , as one might call them, are suited to this particular task, as is the fact that you are not _currently_ affiliated with or in receiving of payments from any intelligence service."

"I'm retired. Permanently. I have other people to think of these days," she says, pointing to her belly.

"I am reliably informed that pregnancy is not a disability. Nothing too strenuous, I assure you."

"Why would I agree to do anything for you?"

"I am sure that you would prefer your past to be buried forever."

She turns towards him, with a scandalised glare. "Resorting to blackmail? We made a deal. In the back seat of this car, I seem to recall*. In return for my not standing in the way of your brother's relationship with my fiancé, you would not probe into my past. I've kept my side of the bargain… and grown my own friendship with your brother. Why would you risk any of that? _"_

He shrugs. "You have more to lose now, which means that mere acquiescence is no longer sufficient to sustain our arrangement. I require your assistance in a matter that affects both Doctor Watson and Sherlock, and therefore you. They are about to embark on something very foolish. I require you to take pre-emptive action to remove the necessity of them taking such risks."

"Yet, you don't mind putting me and my unborn child at risk."

"You are a professional and therefore it is far less of a risk. Hear me out."

"Doesn't mean I'm agreeing, but I'm listening."

"There is a woman, a peer of the realm, who is being blackmailed. Not for anything she has done, I must say; rather, it is her husband who is being targeted for a youthful indiscretion, one that transpired before he met the woman whose interests I wish to protect. There is a small cache of letters which, if published, would destroy his reputation and damage her security clearance. While I was away overseas, she approached Sherlock and he took her on as a client. I know the blackmailer will not willingly give the letters to him. The man said as much when he met him in Baker Street so Sherlock and your husband may try to trick him into revealing their location and then try to steal them from the blackmailer."

"You've got a camera on Baker Street, haven't you." She makes it a statement rather than a question. It might well be what the John and Sherlock are talking about tonight. "So? What makes this different from any other case?"

"My brother seriously underestimates his target, and has no idea that there are much more serious issues at stake than those letters. I would like you to recover them from the blackmailer's office tonight."

"Are you sure the letters are there?"

He raises an eyebrow.

She nods; he will have done his homework.

"And why would any blackmailer agree to hand something so salacious to me? Are you paying the man off?"

"No money is involved. The blackmailer is due to attend a banquet in the City tonight, allowing you a free hand."

"What happens if he cancels, comes home early, walks in while I'm rifling through his papers?" Rather dryly, Mycroft answers, "Then you point a gun at his head and give him the choice."

Her eyes open wide. "Are you seriously asking me to assassinate someone?"

"Not at all. He is a coward—that much I do know. He'd hand over the letters because they are quite insignificant, given what else he has been holding over quite a number of important heads in this country. That has been his protection, until now. So long as the blackmailer doesn't publish, doing the occasional favour in exchange for his continued secrecy is something most people are willing to put up with."

"Including you."

He nods.

"But not Sherlock."

"Alas, no. He doesn’t make deals like that with dragons; likes to think of himself more as a St George. The Lady who engaged my brother's services has no idea how dangerous the blackmailer is—for all the other people he is blackmailing in addition to her. Sherlock has no idea what a firestorm he could unleash. These particular letters are irrelevant; the man's wrath, if they are stolen, would fall on far too many other people's heads than the Lady. There is also the small matter of keeping your husband out of court, should he be arrested for doing something foolishly criminal as theft while under the influence of my brother. So, you removing the letters as an anonymous operator would ensure that the problem is dealt with for the Lady. You'd also be saving John and Sherlock from incurring the wrath of a very dangerous person."

"Who is this person?"

"Charles Augustus Magnussen."

She is too well trained to let her surprise show, but someone as astute as Mycroft Holmes will have seen that lack of a response as an indication of something.

He does not disappoint. "I see you have heard of him. Well, of course you would; your maid of honour works for him. How fortuitous. Perhaps she would be willing to assist you since you are such great pals."

She shakes her head. "I wouldn't do that to Janine; he has some sort of hold on her, too, and she'd tell him who I was." She wouldn’t need Janine’s help, anyway—a simple break-in and theft would not pose too great a risk. While she was there, she could snoop around to see why he would have sent that telegram. There might be a serendipitous collision of interests here. "Why tonight? You said it needs to be done tonight."

"My brother has been cultivating his PA, and it won't be long before he finds a way to get into man's office. Perhaps he and your husband are making plans when they meet at Baker Street."

She smirks. "You're monitoring John's phone calls." She blows him a kiss and he shifts ever so slightly on the leather.

"Of course."

"That reminds me to increase the ante; more phone sex."

He sighs. "Not necessary. I assure you my surveillance is benign. Like you, I have a vested interest in your husband's safety and my brother's sobriety. So, do I take it you are accepting this… opportunity?"

She nods. "Tell your driver to let me off at the next underground station."

Mycroft reaches for the intercom.

oOoOoOoOo  
  


A quick stop at the self-storage unit south of Waterloo brings back some old memories for Mary. None of her tradecraft traps has been sprung, indicating that no one has attempted to enter the cage over the past eighteen months, and why should they? She'd gone for a cheap and cheerful combination of cardboard boxes and old furniture, on display to anyone walking down the corridor between the wire cages. Hiding in plain sight is always wise.

Once she's got the two boxes she needs and the dry-cleaning bag that holds her blackout clothes, Mary's smiling. There are parts of her past that she enjoyed, and seeing the gear and her gun makes her realise that she's missed this—the adrenaline thrill, the flexing of her mind and muscles to plan and win on a mission.

Out of the pavement, Mary digs her phone out of her handbag to call a minicab. She uses the waiting time to take the next step of her plan, scrolling down until she finds the right number.

"Hey there, kiddo. Fancy a drink? I'm dying to tell you all about the honeymoon—and some great news, too. What's your schedule tonight?"

"Oh, Mary! It's brill to hear from you. Got some news of my own to share. I'm stuck at my desk until seven thirty or eight. Himself is off to some marketing shindig; car's coming at seven. While he's hobnobbing with the great and good, I've got to put the final touches on the speech he'd giving tomorrow at the Director's Institute. No rest for the weary."

"How about I meet you downstairs in the lobby at eight? We can pop over to the Alchemist and I'll treat you."

"Not cooking for the hubby tonight then?"

Mary laughs. "Boys’ night out, which means we can be naughty girls together."

"Great. My boy's gone AWOL again, I could do with some cheering up."

By six o'clock, Mary is a black-clad figure on the roof of the CAM building, waiting for the darkness to fall. Her access to the roof came courtesy of the company that provides the window cleaners for the skyscraper. A simple touchpad code punched into the service lift gets her up there, and then she locates the equipment house for the passenger lift that serves the top two floors—the private office and the London flat of the proprietor. When she breaks in and uses her torch to look down the shaft, Mary is relieved to see that the lift car is positioned at the office level. She hooks her cable to the fireman's access hook and rappels three meters down to the lift doors to the flat. She has gained weight since the last time she used this harness and it cuts into her thighs a bit painfully, so she is grateful that it takes only moments to tap into the electric sensor that needs to connect with its mate on the elevator car, allowing the doors to open only when the car is aligned with the doors. Fooling the sensor springs the doors open, she swings into the lobby. Gratefully unclipping herself, Mary then uses the same cable to jam the closing doors open, ready for her escape. Apart from the sound of the doors opening and closing there's been no noise to attract attention.

She knows from Janine's description of the office layout that the PA will be out of earshot some twenty feet below and almost the same distance to the left of the stairs, behind a set of doors, working away on her PC. It gives her all the time and space she needs.

The door from the lift lobby is not locked and yields to her touch on the handle. The grey, carpeted hall is dark, but there are lights on in one of the rooms. Mary draws the pistol she’d equipped with a silencer. She is not entirely sure that the flat is unoccupied; some sixth sense is warning her that CAM might well have decided to give the banquet a miss.

In one sense, it would be fortuitous if the man is still here; she could avoid wasting time and just threaten him until he hands the letters over. If he is as much a coward as Mycroft thinks, the gun should be enough to convince him. And if not, then maybe she will be able to find out why he'd sent the telegram to her wedding and then kill him if she doesn't like the answer. Getting rid of a blackmailer would be stepping outside of the brief that Mycroft had given her, but it could relieve a lot of people, herself included.

The door to the lounge is ajar, and she slips through, levelling her weapon at him. "On the floor. _NOW."_

Incredulous, the tall man drops the newspaper he'd been reading. "Who are you?"

"A concerned party, who wants some letters back."

Magnussen unfolds himself from the Scandi-style chrome and leather chair and slowly stands up. "They seem to be quite popular these days." His eyes are on the gun, and then move to her, scrutinising her in a way she doesn't like.

She flicks the gun as a gesture. "On your knees."

"Or what?"

"I will shoot you."

The first sign of fear slips into his glance. "People don't just _shoot_ someone. Not English people."

"I do."

His confidence is wavering, and she decides to push the point home. "Actually, don't bother with the letters. It's too much trouble. If you're dead, you can't publish. I think it would probably please a lot of people to read your obituary in your papers. So, killing you is going to be a better solution to everyone's problems. On your knees, hands raised to your head."

Perhaps it is the nonchalance of her tone that convinces him. In any case, he drops to his knees and raises his hands. In a tremulous voice, he asks, "Who are you?"

She decides that it is time. Mary uses her right hand to pull the balaclava back up, revealing her face. "Someone you have never met before and still felt able to send a telegram to her wedding. You'll tell me why."

His eyes widen, and then he gives a tentative smile. "I was told to do it. By a mutual acquaintance of ours. You know him as Fyodr."

The name hangs in the air between them. Mary is only just able to keep her gun hand from the tremor that is shaking the muscles in her abdomen. Before she can ask another question, Magnussen continues. "I've been expecting you to come talk to me. Janine told me all about the exciting wedding. An attempted murder—what every best man should bring to a wedding."

"Fyodr… why would he tell you to send that telegram?"

"So, you would come talk to me and allow me to give you the second part of his message."

"I'm here. Tell me."

"He says you owe him a favour. One favour and you'll be free forever, _Mrs Watson_ , to live your happy-ever-after with your doctor."

"How do I know it’s the last one?”

“That’s between you and him.”

“What's the favour?"

"Kill Sherlock Holmes."

This time her gun hand trembles. "Why would I do that?"

"You're an assassin for hire, he told me; should be easy for you. Repay your debt or he will destroy you. Tell your husband and the world what a naughty girl you've been. So many names, so many deaths. And if you do use that gun on me, he will do the same—tell all, make your wedding story look tame in comparison. A bit embarrassing, don't you think?"

Anger flares; her panic fans the flames into rage. She closes the distance between her and Magnussen, and backhands him hard with the gun across his chin. He crumples and cowers, waiting for the second blow.

"What… what… what would your husband think, heh?"

 _Exactly_. It is her every nightmare all rolled into one impossible situation. She can't kill him now. If she does, Hawking Man will destroy her. If she doesn't kill Sherlock, he'll do it anyway.

As her mind races trying to find a way out of this impossible situation, the Dane is grovelling, mewling in fear, "He… your lovely husband, upright, honourable… So English… What… what would he say to you, now?"

"I don't have to kill you. He wouldn't publish unless you're dead. Knowing Fyodr, he won't mind me hurting you so long as you're still alive." She needs to terrify him into silence, somehow breaking whatever relationship he has with Hawking Man. Maybe, if he really believes she will hurt him, she can find out more about why he would deliver this message for the man. It's a long shot, but maybe it will work.

She pulls the gun back to cock it and then resumes her stance.

The escalation frightens the man who cowers and lapses into Danish, crying, "Nej, nej!... You’re–– you’re doing this to protect him from the truth... but is this the kind of protection he would want?"

Mary never gets the chance to answer that question, because a baritone voice behind her comments, "Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood."

As she turns to face him, all Mary can think is _Oh, Sherlock, you stupid, stupid boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credit for the dialogue between Mary and Magnussen in the penthouse flat has to be laid at ArianeDeVere's feet. Her transcript managed to capture what was almost unintelligible on screen in the broadcast episode. Inb my universe of stories Mycroft made a deal with Mary that he would not probe too deeply in her past, in exchange for her not standing in the way of John reconciling with Sherlock after his return from the hiatus. This was covered in my story Devonshire Squires (Chapter 15) and there is more about Mary's past and her parents in Magpie: One for Sorrow and in Magpie: Two For Joy


End file.
